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TRAITS AND TRIALS 


OF 


EARLY LIFE. 


BY L. E. L. V -txw' 

t • 

AUTHOR OF “THE IMPROVISATRICE,» &c. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

E. L. CAREY & A. HART— CHESNUT STREET. 


1837. 

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CONTENTS. 


. / PAdE 

Y THE TWIN SISTERS, - - 13 

f THE LITTLE BOY’S BED TIME, 88 

/ THE SAILOR, 90 

/ THE LADY MARIAN, 92 

/ THE PRISONER, - • - - - - . 97 

MABEL DACRE’S FIRST LESSONS, - 99 

THE DEAD ROBIN, 119 

THE SOLDIER’S HOME, - 121 

/ THE INDIAN ISLAND, 125 

FRANCES BEAUMONT, 153 

^ THE HISTORY OF A CHILD, 219 


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preface' 

f 

This, volume is of a different order from those of 
mine which the public havfe hitherto received vyith 
such indulgence. I trust that it will win an equally 
kind reception. My few words of preface must be 
rather addressed to those who direct my present class 
of readers, than to the readers themselves. My ob- 
ject has been rather to interest than to amuse ; to 
excite the imagination through the softening medium 
of the feeling. Sympathy is the surest destruction of 
selfishness. Children, like the grown person, grow 
the better for participation in the sufferings where their 
own only share is pity. They are also the better for 
the generous impulse which leads them to rejoice in 
the hope and happiness of others, though themselves 
have nothing in common with the objects of their 
emotion. Such is the aim of my principal narratives. 
In the first, I endeavour to soften the heart by a kindly 
regret for unmerrited sorrow. The very youngest 
ought to know how much there is to endure in exis- 
tence ; it will teach them thankfulness in their own 
more fortunate lot, and meekness in bearing their own 
lighter burthens. In the other tales I have rather 
sought to show how exertion, under difficult circum- 


vi PREPUCE. 

stances, is rewarded by success. Young and old, 
rich and poor, have their troubles ; and all experience 
will bear me out inlhe assertion, that patience, forti- 
tude, and affection, are ever strong in obtaining the 
mastery over them. Early lessons of cheerful endu- 
rance cannot be better taught than by example. 

Wordsworth truly says “ that, with the young, 
poetry is a passion.’’ My aim in the poems scattered 
through these pages has been to make one taste 
cultivate another, and to render the flowers scattered 
around our daily path, and the loveliness of nature yet 
dearer because associated with the early affections 
and with snatches of song. To connect the external 
object with the internal emotion is the sweetest privi- 
lege of poetry. 

I can now only entreat a continuance of that favour 
which has so long excited my hope, and still more, 
my gratitude. 

L. E. L. 


THE TWTN SISTERS. 





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41 






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'ki r.«f 


THE TWIN SISTERS. 


** I AM afraid the noise of the children disturbs you,” 
said Mr. Dalton to his wife, as the loud laugh and 
ringing steps upon the gravel walk told the approach 
of the two playmates. 

“ It is so cheerful,” said the invalid, while her 
eyes brightened, as she turned her head in the direc- 
tion whence the sounds came. The little feet became 
inaudible on the turf which they were now treading, 
but the clear laughter was still more distinct, and, in 
another moment, the branches of the dog-rose were 
dashed aside, a shower of the crimson leaves fell 
around, and the two children stood panting and 
breathle.ss at their mother’s side. 

What hands !” exclaimed Mr. Dalton ; but the 
invalid only smiled at the soil which their eager grasp 
had left on her white dressing-gown. 

“We were at work in our garden,” said the eldest 
girl, colouring at the implied rebuke, “ when we heard 
that mamma was cpme out, and so we ran here” 

“ That she might not have a moment^s peace,” said 

B 


14 


THE TWIN SISTERS. 


their father; but his voice was softer than his words/ 
and, emboldened by bis smile, the youngest added : — 

“We will be so quiet, now.” And both sat down 
on the grass at their mother’s feet. Mrs. Dalton was 
far too indulgent to‘ permit such a penance as doing 
nothing i^ to the native activity of childhood, and a 
thousand slight commissions were devised, which, 
with little fatigue to herself, gave full occupation to 
their restless spirits. Now they were despatched to 
the further side of the opposite meadow to fetch some 
of the violets which grew on the southern bank in 
such profusion ; and then it was a task of equal 
interest to seek if, in the more sheltered portion, the 
lilies of the valley yet gave promise of blossom. Any 
traveller riding up the hill, whose winding road in 
part over-looked the above scene, would have surely 
lingered, and then gone on his way rejoicing that he 
had witnessed such happiness. 

The softened light of that most beautiful half hour 
which precedes the sun-set, was upon the air, and the 
huge forms of the old trees flung forwards their 
gigantic shadows. A few of the central clouds had 
already begun to redden, and the windows of the 
distant village shone like gleams of fire through the 
elms of the boundary hedge. The pleasure ground 
sloped to the edge of the park-like meadow, and was 
the admiration of the neighbourhood for the variety 
and richness of its flowers ; and June is the month for 
an English spring. Dalton Park was one of those 
old-fashioned houses, all corners and angles, associate 


THE TWIN SISTERS. 


15 


with the past, and possessing an interest which belongs 
lo, no newly built habitation. Not that Dalton Park 
aspired to the dignity of historical recollections 5 its 
connexion was with domestic feelings, with the 
thought that the old walls had long been warmed by 
the cheerful presence of humanity, and that the 
ancient roof had long sheltered hopes and fears, joys 
and sorrows, like unto your own. 

The western aspect, which looked dowm upon the 
meadow, was almost covered with fragrant creepers. 
The jessamine had as yet scarcely begun to unfold 
its long and slender leaves, but the honeysuckle was ^ 
in all its bravery ; covered with thousands of those 
fairy trumpets from w^hose sweet breath the laden 
bees were slowly wending homewards. The small 
porch, for the principal entrance was on the other 
side, was hidden by the small Ayrshire rose, whose 
delicate crimson flowers, ascending year after year, 
were in rapid progress towards the roo The lawn 
ahone with the coloured foliage of the gay season : 
the beds were crowded with the ‘‘ painted populace” 
,of spring, and thickets of scented shrubs filled the air 
with odours. Those two beautiful children suited 
well with such a picture — they were in perpetual 
motion, rnd their long chesnut curls were but the 
more glossy for the wind that tossed the silken 
lengths, and the sunshine that turned the rich brown 
into gold. Their bright black eyes grew yet brighter 
with eagerness, as, laughing, they said, “ How tall 
they were grown!” and each pursued the other’s 


THE TWI\ SISTERS. 


16 

shadow, while the exercise deepened the already 
vivid red on each warm and glowing cheek. 

But happiness is not for this world — a conviction 
that cannot be too soon-acquired: it will destroy a 
thousand vain expectations, dissipate the most per- 
plexing of our illusions— the early knowledge that 
life is but a trial, whose triumph is hereafter, and this 
earth a place appointed for that sorrow and patient 
endurance which is gradually fitting us for a better 
and a happier state. With this belief ever present 
before us, we should be more ready to enjoy the 
many moments of content and rest vouchsafed on our 
pilgrimage; and more ready to submit to that suffering 
W'hich but turns the heart to its home which is in hea- 
ven. Even like the glorious sun-set w'hich, of all 
hours in the day, seems the most to mingle the influ- 
ences of the world above with that below — w^hen the 
golden light invests all familiar objects with a glory 
not their own ; and yet the long shadows fall, the 
deepest heralds of the coming night : so do the lights 
and shadows of human existence mingle together. 

Mrs. Dalton’s pale cheek flushed, and her eye wore 
somewhat of its former brightness, as she watched 
those two graceful and happy creatures bound over 
the grass, on an infinity of schemes which almost 
always ended in bringing them to her side. But no 
one who looked on tliat face with other than the 
undiscerning eye of childhood but must have read on 
that wan, though youtiiful, brow, the slow, but cer- 
tain, approach of death. Mrs. DaltoQ had boen bort) 


THE TWIN SISTERS. 


J7 


in India, and, like those moi^ delicate exotics which 
pine and perish in a northern clime, she was fading, 
but as gradually as the flower that languishes for its 
native earth. 

Mrs. Dalton had been united to her husband at a 
.very early age ; and had loved him perhaps the more 
that she had no one else to love. Her own parents 
had died when she was too young to remember them — 
she was scarcely two years of age. From motives 
of convenience, she was for a time placed at school 
in Calcutta, and thence consigned, like a bale of 
goods, to the care of a lady at Kensington, who took 
a select number of young ladies. She was about 
sixteen when transferred again to the house of her 
guardian; and in the course of a few months married 
to Mr. Dalton. Her guardian was not sorry to see 
’resigned into other hands the responsibility attendant 
on the charge of a beautiful girl, whose wealth added 
to the anxiety. 

Mr. Dalton was the very reverse of his wife. 
Strong, alike in mind and body, his temper was un- 
yielding, not to say stern. He was a man w^ho made 
no allow^ances. Whatever ought to be done, that he 
-expected should be done — ^and at once. He liked 
j-egularity, and expected prompt obedience, and that 
-every one else should be as active as himself. Timid, 
languid, and indolent — shrinking from exertion to 
which she felt unequal, Mrs. Dalton's oriental tem- 
perament was only Jo be -roused by an appeal to her 
feelings or her generosity. Actuated by either of 
B2 


18 


THE TWIN SISTERS. 


these, motives, the gentle mind and slight frame 
seemed animated with a vigour that might have been 
held incompatible with her soft, sweet nature. Mr. 
Dalton would fain have carried this spirit farther; 
he perpetually lamented that Indiana would listen 
to every impostor who had a few sorrowful words at 
command, and that it was enough to ruin those child- 
ren the way in which she spoilt them.” Still it was 
impossible to be angry with a creature so lovely, and 
so frail, and moreover so utterly devoted to him. It 
had been long, however, since a sound of reproach 
had been heard from Mr. Dalton’s lips. His was no 
temper to hope against hope, and, from the first, he 
had seen that his wife’s malady was fatal. She was 
now dying of consumption, and every thing else was 
forgotten in the deep love that sought, at least, to 
soothe the passage to the grave. 

At this moment a loud exclamation from one of 
the children made Mrs. Dalton start, and her husband 
look round, half in fear, and half in anger. It was 
but the triumphant ejaculation that announced the 
capture of a large butterfly, whose brilliant colours 
seemed caught from the summer skies which bright- 
ened its brief existence. Ellen was seen the first, 
holding her lightly clasped hand, lest the glittering 
dust should be brushed from its delicate wings. 

“You have frightened your mamma out of her 
senses,” said their father. 

“ Nay, nay,” exclaimed Mrs. Dalton, wnth one of 
her own gentle smiles ; “ I knew at once that it was 


TIJE TWIN SISTERS. 


19 


a cry of pleasure. But, Ellen, you have not killed 
the poor insect 

“ No,” said the child, but you could not go to see 
it, and it was so pretty we could not help bringing it 
to you to see.” 

“ I shall see it best as it is flying away.” 

The hint was instantly taken, and, the little hand 
opening, the prisoner flew off as fast as its gossamer 
pinions could bear it. 

Would you like, Ellen, to have some giant snatch 
you up, and carry you off, for the sake of showing 
how your hair curled — should you not be very much 
frightened 

Ellen stood silent, looking pleadingly into her mo- 
ther’s face; but Julia, who had drawn close to her 
sister, said. 

But there are no giants, mamma, to carry us 
away to look at us.” 

No, love, but there are many ways in which all 
may be as needlessly tormented as that poor butter- 
fly ; and, by thinking how little we should ourselves 
like it, we shall surely grow more careful how we 
pain others. And now go, and see if there are any 
buds on the white ruse tree, and, if there are, bring 
me one.” 

‘‘ I wish you would not talk, Indiana, it exhausts 
you,” said Mr. Dalton: ‘‘besides, what did it matter 
about a nonsensical butterfly? you will make those 
children as soft-hearted as yourself.” 

“ My dearest Albert,” exclaimed Mrs. palton, I 


20 


THE TWIX SISTERS. 


believe half th^ cruelty in after life proceeds from the 
indifference with which children are accustomed to 
torment the few things within their little sphere of 
influence. We are all of us too selfish and too care- 
less of what others may feel, and, from the very first, 
j wish Ellen and Julia to think of what may be suf- 
jered from their own heedlessness. Let them, above 
all things, be kind-hearted.” 

** Provided it does not,” remarked her husband, 
“defjenera e into weakness.” 

Mrs. Dalton smiled her assent, and the return of the 
children, with the white rose, put a stop to further con- 
versation. Theshadow^s gradually lengthened, lynd the 
gigantic outline of the elms became confused one with 
another. Fain would Mrs. Dalton have lingered in 
the open air, all was so calm, so lovely, every breath 
she drew brought a differing odour, as first one shrub, 
and then another, gave their hoarded sweetness to the 
evening wind. But Mr. Dalton grew impatient for 
her return to the house ; and she could not say to 
him, “ What does it matter to me ? the chill air is of 
little moment now ; I feel that my hours are num- 
bered, and that no human care can avail to prolong 
their amount.” Still she rose at his first word, and 
was at once carried to the dressing-room. 

As soon as she was recovered from the fatigue of 
moving, she begged to be placed near the window. 
The warmer hues of the sun-set had faded into one 
deep, rich purple. Only on the furthest verge of the 
horizon Jfioated a few white clouds, on which the 


THE TWIN SISTERS. 


21 


crimson lingered to the last; all below was tranquil, 
as in that stillness which precedes sleep. Not a leaf 
stirred on the tree, and the evening sonof of the birds 
had ceased. The colours of the variegated shrubbery 
were growing more and more indistinct, and the grass 
of the meadow had already caught the shadow of 
night. Now and then a low whirring sound was 
heard upon the air, and, borne on its dim and spcc- 
tre-like wings, the old owl swept heavily from one 
elm tree to another. The night-scented plants now 
came out in all their fragrance, and the musk rose, 
outside the window, filled the room wdth its odour. 
At every moment the sky was growing clearer and 
darker, and the silvery star of evening shone with 
that pure and spiritual light which seems so peculiarly 
a message from above. She longed to speak of the 
its own. Mrs. Dalton’s eyes were fixed on that 
star, she drank in its tremulous ray as if it w^ere 
numberless fancies which connected themselves with 
that star ; but she felt that they were unreal, and hesi- 
tated to speak of such folly. She wished to bid her 
husband think of her, as he watched that calm and 
distant planet ; and then she almost rebuked herself 
for the vain romance of her wish. “ He v/ill think 
of me,” she whispered, “with strong and enduring 
affection — it is only the heart of a wmman that links 
itself with these fanciful associations.” 

But, even while she gazed, the light became tremu- 
lous and indistinct; and her head sunk back on the 
pillows of her arm-chair. She w as immediately car- 


22 


THE TWIN SISTERS. 


ried to bed, and, for nearly four hours, lay in a state 
of almost insensibility. She recovered sufficiently to 
take some nourishment from the old Indian nurse who 
had attended her from her births and who now 
watched her death-bed as devotedly as she had done 
her cradle. In about a quarter of an hour, she fell 
into a deep sleep, while the faithful creature, hanging 
over her, almost counted every breath which her mis- 
tress drew. Thus passed the night away, and the 
nurse was about to resign her place, which she always 
did most reluctantly, when a change, passing over the 
face of the beloved sleeper, induced her to remain. 
Mrs. DaJton roused up suddenly, more than refreshed, 
quite animated, by her slumber. The rose burnt upon 
her cheek, and her large clear eyes filled with unusual 
light. The thin, emaciated hand alone denoted the 
long-suffering invalid. 

Ask Mr. Dalton to come here,” said she. 

Eda was surprised, for generally her mistress's 
chief anxiety was that he should be disturbed as little 
as possible. The wish, however, was at once obeyed, 
and, in a few minutes, Mr. Dalton was in the room, 

“ Eda, fetch the children, but do not hurry them,” 
said the sufferer, striving to raise herself on the pil- 
low. She was unequal to the exertion, and sank back 
on her husband’s extended arm. 

Yes, here,” whispered she, resting her head on 
his shoulder. “ I wished to speak to you, Albert,” 
said she, “ but, now I see you, I have nothing to say. 
Yes, thank you for all jour kindness to a weak, suf* 


THE TWIN SI3TERS. 


2n 

fering creature, who must often have sorely tried 
your patience/* A closer pressure to his heart was 
all Mr. Dalton’s answer, his lips quivered, but in 
silence; and, for an instant, he turned his face aside. 
The children, though their little feet were stealing 
along, were now heard. 

“ Indiana, they must not disturb you,” exclaimed 
Mr. Dalton. 

** I must, I must see them,” cried she, more eagerly 
than he had ever known her answer him before. 

They came in, and stole gently to the bed-side. 

“Fling back the curtains,” said Mrs. Dalton; “I 
am weary of this pale and sickly lamp-light.” 

Her wish was immediately obeyed, and the bright 
day-break of a June morning at once fdled the sick* 
chamber. For a few moments the long silken eye- 
lashes lay heavily on the burning cheek — the first 
effort to bear the day was too much. She soon, 
however, gazed around her again, and her eyes 
rested, how fondly ! on the faces of her children. It 
Was a strange contrast that room — all seemed so fresh 
and so glad. The rosy hues of the morning gladdened 
every object on which they fell ; the crimson-touched 
bunches of the honeysuckle sent in their perfume at 
the open window, w'hile the trees beyond glittered in 
the sunshine, more glittering from the early dew yet 
sparkling on the branches. The cheerful singing of 
the birds made every bough musical, and onCy it wa# 
the lark, chanting its morning hymn, seemed to pour 
down its song from the very gate of heaven. It war 


24 


TIlR TWIN SISTERS. 


“ Singing like an angel in the clouds.** 

The two children suited such a morning, the golden 
sunbeams turned their light brown hair to gold, and 
their colour was as fresh as the flowers in the garden 
below : how different from the feverish flush on the 
cheek of their mother ! The joyous beauty of inani- 
mate nature but made the contrast sadder and deeper 
with suffering humanity. For once, the loveliness of 
external nature was unheeded by Mrs. Dalton — that 
loveliness on which she had never before gazed with- 
out a thrill of delight and gratitude. But now, as her 
gaze wandered from her husband to her children, she 
thought but of the brief time accorded to the deep 
emotions of earthly love; she felt that, indeed, death 
had its bitterness which the hope of an hereafter might 
soothe, but not subdue. Tenderly she passed her 
hand over the bright heads that scarcely reached to 
her pillow; she longed to say somewhat to their father 
about them. But to bespeak his tenderness for those 
so soon to be orphans was almost to doubt it, and she 
only asked hitl) to lift them up, that she might kiss 
them. 

“They must not stay,^’ said Mv. Dalton, seeing 
how faint she became. 

The old Indian nurse led them to the door, whither 
their mother’s eye followed them ; it then turned 
towards their father’s face, whence it never moved 
again. The flush gradually faded into utter paleness^ 
and the head, which rested on Mr. Dalton’s arm, was 


THE SISTERS. 


25 


white and scarcely more animate than that of a mar- 
ble statue. His sight had lost somewhat of its usual 
clear distinctness, or his eyes were filled with tears: 
suddenly he dashed them away, and leant eagerly 
over his wife. 

^‘Eda’’ exclaimed he, in an agitated whisper ‘‘ she 
is fainting.” 

“No,” said the aged nurse, “it is all over.” 

Both stood for a moment motionless, breathless, 
when Mr. Dalton rushed from the room; he could not 
bear even that faithful old creature to witness an 
emotion which he felt he could not master. 

It was a hard task to teach those poor children that 
their mother was dead. Death is so incomprehensi- 
ble to a child. They would not believe that their 
mother would not return. “ Mamma can^t do with- 
out us,” said Ellen. “ I am sure she will come back 
for us.” 

“ She will never come back.” replied Eda. 

“ Then why did [she not take us with her ?” ex- 
claimed Julia. 

“ You will go to her in time, if you are good chil- 
dren,” was the old nurse’s answer. 

“ Let us go at once,” cried they in a breath. 

It was in vain to make them understand the impos- 
sibility; and that night, for the first time in their lives, 
the twins cried themselves to sleep. ‘ 

I know where Mamma is/’ whispered Julia to 
her sister ; “ though they keep the house so dark that 


c 


20 


THE TWIN sisters. 


we may not find her. I heard them say that their 
mistress was in the south room.’^ 

Let us go there exclaimed Ellen. “ When 
nurse goes down to dinner — wc can walk so quietly.” 

The time soon came, and the twins stole out to- 
gether Ellen, who was the most timid of the two, he- 
sitated a little as they opened the door of the dark- 
ened apartment, but Julia whispering, “Mamma 
won’t be angry,” encouraged her, and they entered 
the room together. 

“Where is Mamma ?” asked Ellen, looking first 
eagerly at the bed, and then more anxiously towards 
the chairs. 

“ I heard them say that she was here,” exclaimed 
Julia, whose eyes were fast filling with tears: at that 
moment the coffin rivetted the attention of both. 
Each approached it, and each at the same moment 
recognised their mother “ Why does she sleep in that 
strange box'!” asked Ellen, in a frightened whisper. 

“We must take care not to wake her,” answered 
Julia, in a still lower tone. Both remained watching 
her, still and silent, for a considerable time. 

“I wish she would wake,” at last said Julia, and, 
stooping down, kissed the cold white hand extended 
over the shroud. Ellen did the same thing, and both 
started back at the icy chill. It would seem as if 
the sight and touch of death brought its own mysteri- 
ous consciousness. The two children stood, pale and 
awe-struck, gazing on the well known, yet un- 
familar, face that, cold and ghastly, now answered 


THE TWIN SISTERS. 


27 


not to their looks again. They passed their little 
arms around each other, and clinging together, with 
a sweet sense of companionship, neither spoke nor 
moved for a considerable time ; at last Ellen, still 
holding her sister’s hand, knelt down, and whispered, 
‘‘ Let us say our prayers.” And the two orphans re- 
peated, beside their mother’s coffin, the infantine peti- 
tions they had learnt beside that mother’s knee. 

They were thus employed when Eda entered the 
chamber. Her step disturbed them, and they ran to- 
wards her, and throwing themselves into her arms, 
began to weep bitterly. It was remarkable that, from 
that time, the twins never enquired when ‘‘ Mamma 
would come back,” but they listened, with an atten- 
tion beyond their years, when the aged Indian wo- 
man spoke of her own earnest and simple hope whose 
home was beyond the grave. To her care they 
were principally left. Mr. Dalton was often out, he 
found the solitude of his house insupportable. He had 
been accustomed to have his lightest movement 
watched by eyes whose affection triumphed over even 
the trial of suffering, and the languor of disease. In- 
diana, even when too weak to speak, had always a 
smile to give in answer; and, to a man of his temper, 
silent assent was a pleasant method of continuing the 
conversation. 

There are always an ample sufficiency of compas- 
sionate neighbours ready to console one who, by com- 
mon consent, is styled “ the disconsolate widower.* 
He dined out, he spent whole days out, and, beyond 


28 


THE TWIN SISTERS. 


a brief summons to his breakfast table, a summons al- 
ways obeyed with a species of awe, saw but little of 
the children. He wondered at their silence, and then 
felt almost disposed to be angry, for he often heard 
their voices when he came upon them unexpectedly 
in the garden, or entered an apartment where they 
happened to be. But both the twii s were of timid 
tempers — Julia less than Ellen — but even she could 
only be courageous when compared with her sister. 
Their father’s natural gravity and silence overawed 
them — to cling to each other, to answer the meekest 
little ‘‘yes,” or “no,” possible. A few kind words 
would soon have induced them to talk, but their father 
did not understand the art of making them do so. 

Mr. Dalton had no near female relative, but there 
are always ready friends, able and willing to settle 
everything in the world for everybody. These coja- 
sidered the somewhat neglected state of the childdren 
as a case, of all others, calling for neighbourly inter- 
position. Some recommended a school to Mr. Dal- 
ton, others a governess, but, still more, a wife. The 
owner of Dalton Park was however not a man to be 
advised, at least, if people disired that their advise 
should be taken. An impatient shrug of the shoulder 
and a still deeper silence was the utmost reply that 
.the ingenious insinuation, or even the more direct at- 
tack, ever produced. Every time Mr. Dalton went 
from home, it was universally decided that he was 
gone to be married ; still, though there is an old pro- 
verb stating that what everybody says must be true, 


THE TWIN sisters. 


29 


yet there is no rule without an exception. Though 
everybody said Mr. Dalton was ^gone to be married, 
still he persisted in coming home single ; but at last, 
the report was fairly used out. His neighbours grew 
tired of predicting what never came true. His mar- 
riage, which happened at last, took them all by sur- 
prise. No one had had the pleasure of foreseeing 
anything about it. 

“ Yesterday, at St. George’s, Hanover Square, 
Eliza Meredith, daughter of the late John Meredith, 
Esq., to Albert Dalton, Esq., of Dalton Park,” was 
the first intimation his neighbours recieved. To think 
that they should only hear his marriage from the 
newspapers ! The same post brought also letters to 
his steward and house-keeper, directing certain pre- 
parations to be made for the reception of himself and 
his bride, who were to arrive after a fortnight’s tour. 
All was consternation in his own house: the servants, 
who, for two years, had been accustomed to have 
pretty well their own way, exceedingly disapproved 
of their master’s marrying Selfishness is hypocri- 
tical by nature, and seizes on the first decent excuse 
as a cloak ; so their discontent took the shape of pity 
for the two poor children, w'ho were to be subjected 
to all the tyranny of a step-mother. The house-keep- 
er was the first to communicate the intelligence, and 
she sent an invitation to the nurse for herself and the 
twins to drink tea. T his was a compliment to Eda, 
she was a sort of rival potentate, as absolute over her 
nursery as the other was over her own more extensive 
c 2 


30 


THEl TWI.V SISTERS. 


domain. Contrary to the established rule on such oc- 
casions there was no jealousy between these rival 
powers ; indeed the humble and patient nature of the 
Indian rendered dispute all but impossible. To the 
children such a visit was a great treat; they looked 
forward to what seemed to them Mrs. Whyte’s in' 
exhaustible stores of cakes and preserves : moreover 
any change was an amusement to those who rarely 
stirred beyond the boundaries of their own Park. 
Five o’clock saw them seated round the walnut-tree 
table, shining like a looking-glass To Ellen and Julia 
it was a constant source of amusement seeing them- 
selves reflected in the polished surface, while the said 
polish was a perpetual triumph to Mrs. Whyte, who 
boasted that her new mistress might go over the fur- 
niture with her white cambric handkerchief,- and find 
it unsoiled when she had done. The room was small, 
but lofty; and the chill of a November evening ex- 
cluded by scarlet stuff curtains: it had been panelled 
with oak, which however had been painted white, a pro- 
ceeding which added to the cheerfulness rather than to 
the beauty. It was lined with closets, anck adorned 
with bottles, and regular rows of w^hite pots marked 
with every variety of jam and jelly. These were 
however all left to the imagination, for drawer and 
door were kept carefully locked ; and Mrs. Whyte’s 
keys safely lodged in that vast receptacle — her 
pocket. 

The party were assembled by five o’clock — the 
nurse and house-keeper duly occupying two old- 


THE TWIN SISTERS. 31 

fashioned arm-chairs on each side the fire, while the 
two children were placed on stools at their feet. The 
two aged servants were singular contrasts. Mrs. 
Whyte was the very model of a neat, pretty old wo- 
man, Her pale brown hair, a little tinged with gray, 
parted as it had parted all her life, in two equal divi- 
sions on the forehead ; the high muslin cap was like 
a pyramid of snow. Mrs. Whyte would not have 
worn a coloured ribbon for the world. A muslin 
handkerchief was neatly pinned down in front, and 
a brown silk gown completed her attire. We had 
nearly forgotten a white apron, also a ribbon, from 
which hung a pin-cushion, w^hose gaity quite enlivened 
her whole appearance ; it boasted all the colours of 
the rainbow ; but it was the work of ‘‘ the dear chil- 
dren,’’ and always w^orn at such visits. At other 
times it was wrapped in divers folds of silver paper, 
and laid up, literally, in lavender. With small deli- 
cate features, a complexion which retained much of 
its original fairness — age had past over her smiling 
countenance as lightly as possible; she seemed in 
complete keeping with comfort and quiet around her 
—she must have been known any where for an Eng- 
lishwoman. Eda, on the contrary, obviously belong- 
ed to a far distant country. Her high and finely cut 
features expressed more passion and more determina- 
tion than belonged to the soft and gentle face of the 
other ; — and her skin of a dark hut clear olive, to- 
gether with her thick black hair, gave something 
sombre to her appearance. Her dress, nevertheless, 


32 


THE TWIN SISTERS. 


was in a more gorgeous taste; though the taste with 
which the colours were assimilated prevented it from 
being gaudy. — Her turban was of pure white, but 
her dress was a print of a richly variegated pattern, 
and a crimson shawl, whose folds she well knew how 
to manage, fell around her like drapery; — she also 
wore a pair of large gold earings, an ornament suit- 
ing well with her peculiar and stately bearing. The 
highest praise that have been bestowed on the house- 
keeper’s appearance was that of a neat, cheerful, 
and respectable old woman ; — but the Indian ap- 
pealed to the imagination, and might well have past 
for some captive Queen, grown aged in captivity. 
The dignity of misfortune was around her, for Eda 
had known much sorrow, and much suffering. 

Beside these two representatives of advanced age, 
were those who as yet were but entering life, in all 
its freshness and its beauty. The twins were un- 
commonly lovely children. India gave its lustre and 
its darkness to their large black eyes, and England its 
rosy fairness to their complexion ; while a profusion 
of glossy auburn hair hung down in thick curls to the 
waist. They were alike, only Julia was taller, and 
had more colour than her sister, and on all occasions 
was the one who rather took the lead, and encour- 
aged her shy and timid sister. It w^as a touching 
thing to witness the entire affection of the orphans. 
They were never apart ; their little stools were al- 
ways drawn close together ; if they were running in 
the garden, the shadow of the one was sure to fall 


THE TWIN SISTERS. 


33 


on that of the other. If the one read, the other was 
at her side, reading from the same page ; and at 
night each fell asleep in the other’s arms. Though 
equally generous, and affectionate, both had warm 
tempers, yet a word almost would subdue them into 
penitence and tears; still that anger was never turn- 
ed on each other ; from their birth they had never 
had a dispute; everything that they had was in com- 
mon; and any thing given to Julia was sure to be 
shared with Ellen; and Ellen, in her turn, was as 
ready to divide with Julia. 

Tea was ready almost as soon as they entered the 
room ; but there was obviously a weight on Mrs. 
Whyte’s spirits, and the cakes and marmalade were 
disturbed with a more than usual number of ‘‘ poor 
dears,” and divers mysterious and insignificant shakes 
of the head. The children being busily employed in 
eating, and both herself and visitor drawn a little 
apart, and armed with cups of most fragrant tea, 
the housekeeper addressed the nurse, after a deep 
drawn sigh, and a preliminary shake of the head. 

‘‘ I suppose you have heard the news ?’ Though 
for her to have heard it approached to an impossibility 
—and her having heard it would have been a sore 
disappointment to the communicator. 

^‘News,” replied Eda, ‘‘ what is it?” 

“ The worst news that this house has heard for 
many a day.” 

The affectionate Indian turned a startled glance on 
the two children; but no, there they were, looking 


34 


THE TWIN SISTERS. 


equally well and happy ; so, satisfied, she contented 
herself with an enquiring glance at her companion. 

“ Ah ! you may well look at those poor dear 
children,” continued Mrs. Whyte, who possessed to 
the highest degree the art of working up her hearers 
into a state of miserable suspense by what she called 
preparing them for the worst. 

“ Is theie,” exclaimed the nurse, any illness in 
the neighbourhood ?” 

Oh no ; I wish that were all.” 

‘•All, that all!” said Eda, to whom the illness of 
the children, to whom she was so fondly attached, 
seemed a calamity of the most formidable order* 
“What can be worse? my master, has anything 
happened to him ?” 

“ Yes, it is of my master I am speaking; but he 
is well enough.” 

Eda’s anxiety was now sufficiently quieted to' enable 
her to wait patiently for Mrs. Whyte’s intelligence, 
who seemed resoh-ed to prolong to the utmost the 
importance which untold news gives to its posses- 
sor She however told it, at last, abruptly enough — 

“ So, my master is going to be married.” 

“ Married !” almost shrieked Eda, “ impossible 1” 
she sank back, her dark countenance turning to a 
livid paleness with the violence of her emotion — while 
her companion remained absolutely awed into silence 
by the change in the Indian’s agitated features. 
“ Impossible,” continued she in a low voice, rather as 
if thinking aloud, “ it seems but yesterday that she 


THE TWIN SISTERS. 


85 


was at his side, — with her soft eyes that so watched 
his own, — and her sweet voice, which he never heai d 
utter one harsh word, — and indeed who ever did 'I 
She sleeps in a cold dark vault on which her native 
sun looks not; had they buried her in its warm light, 
amid the long grass which she loved, the flowers 
would have grown up to hide the dark earth below. 
Why his heart is yet warm with the beating of her’s. 
He cannot look in the faces of those children and not 
see hers; so beautiful, so young, so devoted — she 
cannot be so soon forgotten — it is impossible.’’ 

Little as she liked the new's she told, Mrs. Whyte 
felt her own consequence impeached by having her 
authority doubted. — Diving therefore to the very 
depths of her pockets, she drew forth a letter: You 
know,” said she, “ my master's hand-writing.” Eda 
took the letter ; she read the few first lines ; she 
could read no more. The room swam around wdth 
her. The faces grew indistinct, and, staggering like 
one who has received a violent blow, she rose from 
her seat— she stood for a moment as if she knew not 
what she w^as doing, — when the voice of Mrs. Whyte 
recalled her to herself. Making a strong effort to 
command her feelings, she exclaimed, in a low brok- 
en voice, “ Take care of the children,” and hurried 
to her own chamber. Partly to divert their attention 
from the absence of their nurse, but still more be- 
cause she found it impossible to keep her knowledge 
to herself— the housekeeper began to communicate 


36 


THE TWIN SISTERS. 


the important tact that they were going to have a 
mamma. 

Mamma !’^ cried the twins in the same breath, 
springing from the table, Is mamma coming back 
to us ?” The colour glowing in their cheeks and 
the large tears in their eyes — with hope and eager- 
ness — they passed close to Mrs. Whyte for her an- 
swer. 

No, poor dears, no ; you are going to have a 
new mamma — a fine new one.” 

“ We won’t have a new mamma,” exclaimed Julia. 
“ I will have my own mamma.’, 

‘‘ Will is a naughty word for young ladies,” said 
the housekeeper; “and you must be so good now; 
for your father, next week, will bring you a new 
mamma,” 

“Why has he brought her?” asked Ellen. 

This question somewhat puzzled Mrs. Whyte. 
“ Because he has married her,” was however her 
answer at last. * 

“ And will she be called Mrs. Dalton, and live here 
always?” said Julia. 

“ Yes ; — ^just like your mamma. 

“And wdll she have mamma’s room, and mamma’s 
garden ?” 

“Yes;” said the old wmman, her heart melting 
within her at all the recollections these words ex- 
cited. 

“ And will she be put in mamma’s picture?” and 
both of the children hid their faces in Mrs. Whyte’s, 


THE TWIN SISTERS. 


37 


lap, and began to cry bitterly. Before Mrs. Whyte 
could explain that the picture would remain, Eda re- 
entered, and at once the two orphans ran towards 
her. 

“Pray, pray, ask papa not to bring us home a new 
mamma, and we will be so good without her.” 

‘The sight of the children for the moment over-set 
all the prudent resolutions which it had cost poor 
Eda so much to form ; her natural strong sense at 
once shewed her the necessity of submission, to tell 
the children of the event cheerfully, and to induce 
them to look forward to the bride^s arrival as some- 
thing which was to be a source of happiness, had 
been her immediate, and, as she thought, firm resolve ; 
but the sudden enquiry overset her hardly acquired 
firmness. The sight of her tears made the twins cry 
half in sympathy, and half in fear ; any one who has 
noticed may have observed that the weeping of 
grown up persons produces a sensation of awe on the 
mind of a child. Accustomed to associate the idea 
of superiority with that of • their elders, they cannot 
understand their giving way to the same emotions as 
themselves. It must be somthing very dreadful in- 
deed to have produced it. Eda soon recovered from 
her emotion, or rather soon subdued its external 
sings— and, taking the children on her knee, first 
soothed them with caresses, and then endeavoured to 
place the subject in its pleasantest light; she told 
them how" kind their new mamma would be, and that 
she would take them to walk with her, and ask their 


38 


THE TWIN SISTERS. 


father to forgive them if ever he was angry. Scott 
beautifully says 

“ The tear down childhood’s cheek that flows 
Is like the dew drop on the rose.” 

So it proved to be in the present instance, and the 
children again took their places at the table, to Mrs. 
Whyte’s great satisfaction, who considered seed-cake 
and marmalade a sovereign panacea for all the ills 
to which childhood is heir. Still the conversation of 
the evening made a deep impression on Ellen and 
Julia — they remembered Mrs. Whyte’s “ poor dears,” 
and still more anxiously Eda’s weeping. Every morn- 
ing they stole into the drawing-room where it hung and 
watched to see if their mamma’s picture was still 
unaltered. Finding it the same, day after day, seem- 
ed to reconcile them more than all Eda could urge 
to the duty which they owed to their father, and 
the indulgence which they were to expect from his 
bride. At length the important day came on which 
Mr. and Mrs. Dalton were expected to arrive. It 
was with a heavy heart that Eda prepared to dress 
the children. It was the first time that they had laid 
aside their mourning since their mother’s death. The 
affectionate and faithful creature felt almost as much 
in putting on the white frocks as she had done when 
they first wore their black ones. She was almost 
angry at the pleasure which their new dresses gave 
the children, who admiringly surveyed their long new 
white sashes and shoes. Her anger had however 


THE TWIN SISTERS. 


39 


not to last long, for Julia suddenly put her new dress 
aside, and said.” 

“We put on our black frocks.for our own mamma’s 
memory - are we to put on our white ones to forget 
her for our new mamma ? I won’t wear them.” 

It now required all Eda’s soothing and reasoning to 
induce them to put on what they had just been admir- 
ing. When they were dr^t, Eda saw from the flush- 
ed cheek and a little trembling hand of her beloved 
charges that they were over excited. Naturally de- 
licate and timid, they were sensitive beyond their 
years ; and anxious both for their good looks and 
good behavour, their nurse sent them into the garden, 
to gather a nosegay to give Mrs. Dalton on her ar- 
rival. 

It wcis a. lovely nionilng in autumn, one of those 
delicious days w’hich unite the warmth of spring with 
the deeper and more melancholy tone of the departing 
year. The early flowers had long since perished^ 
The snow-drop, crocus and epatica had led the way 
for the lavish profusion of the violet, the laburnum, 
the lilac, and the numberless roses that take so many 
shapes and all of them beautiful. But now the co- 
lours of the garden were at their richest — the dahlias, 
those magnificient strangers, spread around their 
oriental magnificence white, scarlet, crimson, orange, 
like the livery of a court, when a King assembles his 
nobles in the bravest attire. The geraniums too 
were in full blossom, and as various in kind and co- 
lour as the rose; nor was the rose herself wanting. 


40 


THE TWIN SISTERS. 


the delicate species called Chinese. Singular that what 
seems but to look at the most fragile of its kind, 
should yet linger to the last, and smile even amid the 
the snow. The children felt the influence of the soft 
and balmy hour. Their colour, as they wandered 
through the garden, became even more bright, though 
less feverish. The interest of their employment oc- 
cupied them entirely, and exercise and sunshine 
made them cheerful as usual. At last the important 
task was completed, the rose-bud arranged with the 
myrtle and the geranium, and the heliotrope gave its 
sweet breath like incense ; but some white ribbon 
was wanted to tie the prettily arranged bouquet, and 
they returned to ask Eda for some. The flowers 
were scarcely fastened together when the distant 
sound of a carriage was heard, and the nurse hurried 
with her charge into the hall. She was agitated her- 
self, and this was rather increased, for she could feel 
the trembling of each little hand as she took them in 
her own. 

They reached the hall, the moment before Mr. and 
Mrs. Dalton entered — the two children clung to 
Eda’s gown — and with difficulty could she unloose 
their clasp, and make them to go forwards — for their 
father’s first question w^as, “Where are Julia and 
Ellen?” The sound ^f his voice, which was very 
kind, re-assured them, and he himself led them blush- 
ing till the tears stood in their eyes. 

“ What beautiful children,” exclaimed the bride as 
she stooped down to kiss them — obviously more ctire- 


THE TWIN SISTERS. 


41 


ful of the folds of her veil than anything efse : she 
took the flowers without looking at them, and, taking 
her husband’s arm, pursued hej* way through the hall, 
with, a look of scrutiny and observations which would 
better have suited the returning mistress, careful of 
what might, have happened in her absence, than a 
young bride passing a strange threshold for the firs 
time. The two children hung back, but Eda, in a 
whisper, bade them follow. She was glad that she 
did so, for Mr. Dalton looked round, and, seeing 
them beside, smiled, and bade them run before and 
show mamma the way to the drawing-room. The 
group in the hall were now left free to make thei 
comments, which were not of the most flattering or" 
der. The truth was, none of their self-love was en- 
listed in the favour of their new mistress; she had 
past on without a single kind word and look, not one 
old servant, and most of those at Dalton Hall had 
lived there for years, had received from her the 
slightest notice. Eda was the only one who could 
not be persuaded to say more than that “Mrs. Dalton 
W’as certainly very handsome:” and so she was; her 
figure was tall and finely proportioned, though there 
was a stiffness in her movements which somewhat 
detracted from their grace. Her features were re- 
gular, though of a kind that advancing years might 
render sharp, while her dark eyes, very handsome 
eyes they w^ere, had every beauty of shape, colour — 
all but sweetness. 

The children soon made their appearance in the 
d2 


42 


THE TWm SISTERS. 


nursery, they said that their father’s new mamma 
had a head-ache. Neither seemed inclined to talk 
about her, and Eda thought it most judicious to ask 
no questions. Soon after they came in, she observed 
that Ellen had in her hand the very flowers on whose 
selection so much pains had been bestowed. 

« Why did you not give your mamma her pretty 
nosegay?” asked Eda. ^ 

‘^Oh, we did,” replied Julia, “but she dropped it 
in the passage, and when we picked it up and gave 
it to her again, she said that she could not bear the 
perfume.” 

“We did not like it to be lost,” added Ellen, “ be- 
cause the geranium was from our own mamma’s 
tree.” 

“ Some people cannot bear odours,” said the 
nurse : “ do you remember your mamma never could 
walk through the lime avenue in spring?” 

“ I wish we had not put any heliotrope,” said 
Julia, “ I dare say it was that.” 

Though the morning had been so fine, the after- 
noons were chilly, and the twins, who inherited their 
mother’s sensitiveness to cold, drew their stools to 
the fire and asked Eda to tell them one of the stories 
of her own country. They seemed never to weary 
of the picturesque tales of which India is so fertile. 
While they were thus employed, the door opened un- 
ceremoniously, a rustle of silk was heard, and in 
came Mrs. Dalton. Eda of course left off speaking, 
and, rising from her seat, curteseyed respectfully and 


THE TWIN SISTERS. 


43 


remained silent and standing ; the two children rose 
also, and stood, like their nurse in silence. Mrs. Dal- 
ton had heard the sound of talking as she came in, 
and immediately supposed that they had been speak- 
ing of herself: the silence on her entrance seemed 
very suspicious. “ Pray,” said she, with sT sneer, 
“ do not let me interrupt your conversation, unless, 
as is often the case, I am too nearly connected with 
it to hear it. Pray what were you talking about?” 
said sbe, turning abruptly to Julia. 

“We were not talking,” replied the child, answer- 
ing her question in the most literal manner — Eda 
was telling us about her father’s elephant” — 

Mrs. Dalton made no direct reply, but exclaimed. 

What, a fire already ! — I never heard of a fire at 
this time of the year. I wonder, nurse, you suffer 
these children to sit burning themselves up in such a 
manner.” Eda tried to answer, but her words 
choaked her; and, without w^aiting for it, Mrs. Dal- 
ton approached the window, and threw it up, though 
a small drizzling rain was beating against it: at this 
moment the door of the nursery opened again, and a 
most unusual visitor, Mr. Dalton, appeared “ Come 
here, children,” said he, depositing at the same time 
a variety of parcels on the table, ‘‘ come and look at 
all the playthings your mamma has brought you from 
London:” catching sight of Mrs. Dalton, he added, 
advancing . towards her, ‘‘will you distribute your 
treasures yourself?” 

“You see,” said she with a smile which Eda had 


44 


THE TWIN SISTERS. 


not thought her face could assume. “ I am beginning 
my acquaintance with your house betimes, you can 
imagine the attraction which this room possesses in 
my eyes.” Mr. Dalton looked gratified, and pro- 
ceeded to unfasten the strings of the different pack- 
ages. 

‘‘ Where does this draught come from exclaim- 
ed he suddenly ; ‘‘ why, Eda,” looking towards the 
open window, “ this is not like your usual care.” 
Eda remained silent for a minute or two, but, finding 
her mistress did not speak, said “ Mrs. Dalton opened 
it, I believe she found the room too warm.” As if 
she had just recollected it, the lady looked round. 

“ Ah, I forgot, but you cannot think how close it 
was when I came in. Very unwholesome to keep a 
room so hot. I see you will all require a deal of re- 
form, shall I begin with you,” addressing Mr. Dalton: 
“ but that would be saying little for my own taste, I 
at least cannot discover your faults.” 

“ I am afraid you soon will,” replied he, though in 
a tone of voice which showed the flattery had not 
been lost. They continued unfastening the toys, but 
though Mrs. Dalton was now profuse in her “ loves,’* 
and “ dears,” it was easy to see that she sought en- 
tirely to engross her husband’s attention. At last, 
turning the conversation from some doll’s furniture to 
that she now saw for the first time, she expressed a 
wish to soe the house, “ This being the only room to 
which I could find my way by myself.” Mr. Dalton 


TIIR TWIN SISTERS. 


45 


immediately proposed shewing her what rooms there 
yet remained day-light enough to see. 

“ I was going,” continued she, “ to petition that 
these dear children might accompany us, but really, 
after this over-heated room, it might give them cold.” 
She left the nursery, and both Eda and the children 
felt the relief of her abscence. The first thing Julia 
did w^as to run and shut the window^ she did it some- 
what loudly and hastily, nurse saw the spirit of op- 
position in her act, and, calling her to her side, 
said gently, “ Your mamma is not used to the coun- 
try here, I am sure that she v/ill wnsh us to have a 
fire, when she knows that these large and cold rooms 
wmuld be very chilly without. Now show me all the 
beautiful play things wdiich she has brought you.” 
The Indian spoke cheerfully, but she did not feel as 
she spoke; she w^as too shrewd not to perceive the 
petty and unkind spirit of jealousy wdiich animated 
Mrs. Dalton, and her heart sunk within her as she 
considered the influence which her new^ mistress 
would in future exercise over those who were dearer 
to her than her own life. 

A few days passed on — and never did a few days 
bring about more changes. The furniture was moved 
the dinner-hours altered, all old habits were infringed, 
and, before a month was out, every servant had given 
warning. Mrs. Whyte w^as the last. ‘‘I had hoped,” 
said she, “ to have lived and died in the old house 
— I am sure I have done my duty by its master — but 
I am too old to lake up with new habits, and I only 


46 THE TWIN SISTERS. 

hope my mistress will be better satisfied wfith my 
successor.” It might be supposed that she would, 
for Mrs. Dalton declared her intention of being, for 
the future, her own housekeeper. Mrs. Whyte’s dis- 
missal was the onl}^ one which drew a comment from 
Mr. Dalton. Provided no one interfered with either 
his library or his stable, he did not care how the rest 
of his establishment was managed, it being fully un- 
derstood that he was to have as little trouble as was 
possible ; but when the neat old woman, who had 
been “ one of the old familiar faces” from his boy- 
hood, claimed the privilege of an old servant, who 
had known him in his cradle, to bid him good-bye, and 
who could not restrain her tears when she came to say 
“ God bless him,” all Mr. Dalton’s sympathies were 
aroused. He bade her adieu most kindly, inquired 
minutely about her circumstances, and even shook 
hands with her at parting. Nor did his kindness rest 
here ; he immediately settled a small annuity on. her, 
which would amply supply every comfort, during her 
life. Moreover, that every day after dinner, as 
soon as the servants were withdrawn, and Mrs. Dal- 
ton and himself quietly settled down into the arm- 
chairs on each side the fire, he even went so far as 
to say, “ Do you know, my dear, I am very sorry 
that you have found it necessary to part with Mrs. 
Whyte ; poor old creature, I have known her ever 
since I was born, and she was so attached to the 
family.” 

1 am sure, my love,” replied Mrs. Dalton, in her 


THE TWIN SISTERS. 


47 


blandest tones, ‘‘ I am very sorry, I did not know 
that she was so great a favourite with you — I would 
not have parted with heron any account; but, indeed, 
my dear, you have spoilt all your servants — I could 
do nothing with them — I shall not have half the trou- 
ble with a new set, who know’ my ways from the 
first. I am not very particular, but, I own, I know 
when work is well done. I used to tell you I piqued 
myself on my housekeeping ; I kept mamma’s house 
for her since I was sixteen.” A pause ensued, and 
Mr. Dalton began to crack his walnut wdth unusual 
industry, and his lady continued, ‘‘ I can assure you, 
Mrs. Whyte is not the only old servant I should re- 
joice to be rid of.” 

There are not,” replied Mr. Dalton, ‘‘ many now 
left to interfere with your arangements.” 

Why there is that tiresome old black woman.” 

“Eda is not black,” said her husband. 

“ But she is as obstinate as a mule — she minds no- 
thing that I say, he manages those children — the way 
in which they are spoilt is enough to ruin them : I 
never saw any thing so rude as they grow, and it is 
all Eda’s fault.” 

“lam sorry to hear this, as they grow older I 
trust that they will be more amenable to your advice. 
But,” and his brow darkened as he spoke, “ the spoil- 
ing of an old woman cannot much matter, counter- 
acted as it is by your judicious control.” 

“ I am sure,” continued the lady, “ the wisest thing 
we could do would be to get rid of her. ’ 


48 


THE TWIN SISTERS. 


“ We will drop this subject once and for ever,’’ re- 
plied her husband. “While I have a house, that 
house will be a home for Eda. You do not know’ 
the fidelity and devotion of that affectionate crea- 
ture.” 

“ My dear love‘” said his wife, “ you are master in 
your own house. I would not for the w^orld interfere 
with any of your wishes. I am very sorry I ever 
mentioned the subject.’’ Here the conversation 
changed, Mrs. Dalton revolving in her own mind 
whether it would not be possible to provoke Eda in- 
to leaving of her own accord. 

Julia and Ellen had that very morning given her 
more than usual cause of displeasure. She had early 
began to lay down a system of rules, as much opposed 
to all their old habits as could well be devised. Eda 
conformed in every thing, saving in one or two in- 
stances to which she knew the strength of the 
children was unequal, and even then she did not de- 
viate from the rule laid down, without the most sub- 
missive remonstrance and explanation. Among other 
rules rigidly insisted upon was they were not to run 
in and outof the drawing-rooms ; indeed, they were 
not to make their appearance there, unless they were 
sent for. Eda believed this prohibition was strictly 
observed : indeed, she secretly thought that there was 
too little temptation to fear that it would be neglected ; 
but Julia and Ellen made an exception, in their own 
favour, for one single room, and into that they con- 
trived to steal every morning. It was at some dis- 


THE TWIN SISTERS. 


49 


tance from their usual sitting-room, so their disobe- 
dience had yet remained undiscovered. It so hap- 
pened that Mrs. Dalton, while receiving some visitors, 
happened to mention a rare plant she had noticed in 
the green-house. These visitors had a valuable collec- 
tion oftheirown, and that generally gives us an interest 
in another’s. They went to the green-house, where the 
gardener said it had been sent to the house and placed 
in the window of the blue drawing-room, as it was 
called. Thither Mrs. Dalton proceeded with her 
guests, and there she found the two children; who, 
hearing footsteps, endeavoured to make a rapid re- 
treat. The window opened down to the ground, and 
they had come through it with all possible precaution ; 
but, in their haste to leave the room unobserved, they 
threw down the stand of flowers— Ellen’s frock caught 
on one of the pots, and Julia staid to assist her. 

“ As usual, those children are always in mischief,” 
exclaimed Mrs. Dalton. ^‘What were you doing 
here V* The culprits stood silent, when an old lady 
of the party good-naturedly came forward and said, 

“ I am sure they are very sorry for what they have 
done. Will you let me intercede for them this once ?” 

Nay,” said Mrs. Dalton, “ I only regret that the 
very plant should be destroyed which you took the 
trouble of coming to see but her face contradicted 
her words. The party left the room, and the same 
lady who had interceded for them now said, “I 
must get acquainted with these little strangers,’’ and> 


E 


50 


THa TWIIV SISTERS. 


taking a hand of each, led them forward, silent and 
reluctant. 

“ You will find them sadly troublesome,” replied 
Mrs. Dalton, who however made no farther objec- 
tion. The visit was constrained and tedious, there 
was a stiffness and coldness in the manners of the 
hostess that precluded all attempts at familiar con- 
versation. Interested in nothing that did not imme- 
diately concern herself, she had none of that general 
kindliness which is so winning even in trifles. Her 
very politeness was chilling, for there was nothing of 
the heart in it. As to the children, it was impossible 
to extract a word from them — Mrs. Dalton muttered 
something about sullenness, but the old lady who had 
before taken their part felt tempted to say, “ Why, 
madam, they are frightened out of their poor little 
wits,” Lunch having been eaten and the green-house 
seen, — nothing now remained to supply topics of dis- 
course or the want of them, and, after a dull quarter 
of an hour, the ladies rose, glad that the penance 
was over. 

What a duty it is to cultivate a pleasant manner ! 
how many a meeting does it make cheerful which 
would otherwise have been stupid and formal.’ We 
do not mean by this the mere routine of polite ob- 
servance, but we mean that general cheerfulness 
which, like the sunshine lights up whatever it touches, 
that attention to others which discovers what subject 
is most likely to interest them, and that information 
which, ready for use, is easily laid under contribu- 


THE TWIN SISTiJRS. 


51 


tion by the habit of turning all resources to immediate 
employ. In short, a really pleasant manner grows 
out of benevolence, which can be as much shown in 
a small courtesy as in a great service. It can never 
be possessed by a selfish person, and Mrs. Dalton 
was thoroughly selfish. She had no idea that it could 
be a greater pleasure to give up your own comfort, 
or your own wishes, to those of another, than even 
enjoying their fullest gratification yourself. Julia 
and Ellen were gliding as they thought unperceived 
out of the room, when the harsh voice of Mrs. Dalton 
recalled them. 

Slowly, and holding each other fast by the hand, 
hey approached the sofa where she was seated. 

“Can’t you stand upright,” exclaimed she angrily, 
to without leaning upon each other in that awkward 
way 1 And now perhaps you will have the goodness 
tell me what business you had in the drawing-room. 
Was this the first time?” 

“ No,” said Julia, in an almost inaudible whisper. 

“ How dare you run in and out, bringing all the 
dirt from the garden.” 

“ We take such care,” replied Julia, who on most 
occasions acted as spokeswoman, “ to rub our feet 
before we come in.” 

But how dare you come in when my orders are 
that you should not ?” To this question no answer 
was returned, the culprits stood pale with fear, their 
heads hung down and not daring even to look at each 
other. 


52 


THE TWIN SISTERS. 


** ni make you repent this obstinacy. I insist upon 
knowing what you were doing there.” The loud 
tone in which this was said admitted of no farther 
delay: trembling from head to foot, Julia at last an- 
swered : 

(‘We go there every morning to see if you have 
been put in our mamma’s picture.” Tbe fact was 
the children, who never rightly understood why a 
stranger should come in the place of their still fondly 
remembered parent, expected that, as every thing else 
had changed, the portrait would change too, and 
watched over it with a mixture of fear and love. 
Every morning they stole quietly into the room, and 
went happy in the conviction that the sweet face' 
which was to their affectionate eyes such a treasure 
had still a smile for them. There was something in 
this answer that provoked Mr. Dalton to the utmost, 
and yet she scarcely knew how to make it a subject 
of reproof: catching, however, at one expression Julia 
had used, she retorted, “ So I am not your mamma, 
you little ungrateful creatures. I know who taught 
you this ; but I won’t have an old black in my house 
much longer to make every body as insolent as her- 
self: go along to the nursery, and, to punish you for 
your disobedience, you shall not come down stairs 
after dinner to-day.” This was no longer a punish- 
ment, it was a penance, on the contrary, which they 
were glad to avoid. They knew that, from the time 
they entered, till the bell rang for ‘‘ Eda to fetch the 
Misses Dalton,” it would bo an incessant repetition 


THE TWIPf SISTimS. 


53 


of reproofs. Nothing discourages a child so much 
as the impossibility of pleasing. At first Julia and 
Ellen held up their heads, and altered their position 
every second minute, but it was in vain. They grew 
careless at last, and, not loving Mrs. Dalton, became 
indifferent whether they pleased her or not. 

In the meantime their father found all this very 
tiresome ; and, too indolent to examine who was in 
fault, satisfied himself with repeating, what his wife so 
often asserted. “ that all children were plagues when 
Come to a certain age.” He only hoped that this age 
would soon be past, and in the meantime only sup- 
pose that his own had more than ordinary allotment 
of wearisomeness and stupidity. The fact was that 
they scarcely dared to speak, or raise their eyes, dur- 
ing the brief visit which they paid to the dining-room. 
He was little aware of the system of tninute tyrany 
which his wife pursued. Not that she was cruel, or 
intended any positive injury ; but she was harsh, sel- 
fish, delighted in a system of punishment and restraint, 
while she considered the luckless orphans as intruders 
on her rights, and, as such, to be regarded with an 
unkindly and perpetual jealousy ; she interfered with 
all their childish enjoyements ; they were forbidden 
two thirds of their old accustomed walks, indeed any 
where there was a chance of their meeting their 
father. The little poney carriage, in which they used 
to drive, was pronounced an unnecessary expense, 
and, though the children required air, they were not 
equal to much exercise. Their dinners, on the pre^ 

K 2 


54 


THE TWIN SISTERS. 


tence of regimen, were reduced to the coarsest ma- 
terial, and they were possessed of that delicate appe- 
tite very different from the healthy hunger which 
usually belongs to their age. 

* But the worst was the perpetual fear in which 
they lived ; they would start and turn pale at the 
opening of a door, lest they should see Mrs. Dalton, 
and some slight fault be followed by punishment far 
beyond the offence. Hours of solitary imprisonment 
were a usual infliction, when they were left to brood 
over the assurance of their owm extreme wickedness. 
Eda saw with bitter regret that their spirits were 
quite broken, and that they were gradually confound- 
ing all ideas of right and wrong. Reverence to a 
parent is a child’s first duty, and a parent’s approba- 
tion is a child’s sweetest reward. But how could 
she inculcate duty where it was utterly undeserved, 
and how hold forth that approbation which no exer- 
tion could gain? As to herself, nothing but the most 
devoted affection could have induced the faithful In- 
dian to have remained under Mrs. Dalton’s roof. 
Her mistress never spoke to her but with some paltry 
taunt reflecting on her country or her complexion. 
Her fellow servants, encouraged by such example, 
were insolent and unkind ; every comfort due to her 
age and situation w^as with-drawn and she had a yet 
keener source of suffering in the condition of those 
who were far dearer to her than herself. But for 
their sakes she would have borne even to death — for 
their sakes she endured contumely and privation — for 


TUB TWIN SISTERS. 


65 


their sakes she curbed a temper naturally warm — lest 
one disrespectful word should give her mistress a hold 
against her. She knew that while she remained in 
that house — now so little of a home to any of them, 
the orphans had still one tender friend, one to watch 
their sickness, to hear their little griefs, and console 
them as far as pity could console. She could talk to 
them of their own mother — she could teach them to 
pray, and, young as they were, their sweetest hopes 
were garnered in that world which is beyond the 
grave. 

Evening after evening, w^hen secure from Mrs. 
Dalton’s entrance, as she w^as then generally engaged 
with her guests below, the children would take their 
seats at Eda’s feet, and listen while she read aloud, 
from the large old Bible, such portions as were adapt- 
ed to their infant minds. Suffer ye little children 
to come unto me,” were the latest words that they 
heard at night, and the hope which lingered the last 
around their often restless pillow. All Mrs. Dalton’s 
efforts to dislodge the tiresome old Indian were in 
vain. Direct dismissal she knew that her husband 
would not suffer, and all indirect attempts were coun- 
teracted by what might truly be called Eda’s patience 
and long suffering. But the scene of the morning 
had furnished Mrs. Dalton with an excuse for an at- 
tempt to carry a plan into execution which she had 
long revolved. After dinner, when Mr. Dalton en- 
quired why the children did not make their usual ap- 


58 


THE TWIN SISTERS. 


pearance, his lady at once replied ‘‘ that they were 
in disgrace.’’ 

‘‘ Pshaw,” replied Mr. Dalton, “ no great fnatter, I 
dare say : come, let them be forgiven, and I will ring 
the bell for them.” 

“ Will you pardon my opposing your wishes for 
once?” said she. “I do not often interfere with the 
management of the children. I feel how delicately 
I am' situated, but really I fear I have been wrong. 
They are sadly neglected, left entirely as they are 
under Eda’s charge ; they are getting too old for the 
nursery.” This was a fact which Mr. Dalton could 
not deny, though he had never given it a moment’s 
consideration before. 

“ Those dear children,” continued she in the blan- 
dest tone possible, “ ought to have some education ; 
or do you mean that they should run wild about the 
country, as they do now, when they are grown up ?” 

“ Certainly,” answered the gentleman, they do 
need instruction.” 

“ And restraint still more. I cannot tell you this 
morning how shocked I was when Mrs. Dalrymple 
was calling here, (you have yourself often observed 
what elegant girls her daughters are), to have Julia 
and Ellen scampering in at the drawing-room win- 
dows, covered with dirt, and throwing down the 
flower-stand where was the very plant which Mrs. 
Dalrymple had gone there to see.” This narration 
touched Mr. Dalton on the tenderest point : he had 
the greatest horror of noise or any thing like romp- 


THE TWIN SISTERS. 


57 


ing in a girl. A woman, in Ids idea, could not be too 
quiet; and this riotous conduct in Ellen and Julia 
was at complete variance with all his notion of femin- 
ine delicacy. He instantly became alarmed as to 
what they would be as they grew up, and two lou i, 
awkward, vulgar looking girls rose to his mind’s eye. 
“ You are right, my dear,” exclaimed he, after a 
pause, ‘‘ Eda is a faithful and affectionate creature, 
but certainly quite unfit to educate my daughters ; 
something must be done, suppose we have a gover- 
ness.” 

‘‘Your plan,” returned Mrs. Dalton, “would be 
excellent, were the acquisition of accomplishment all 
we had in view: but I fear the first object must be 
to break the dear children of many, I must say, the 
very many, bad habits in which they have been in- 
dulged.” 

“ Send them to school,” said her husband. 

“I have thought of that myself, but am not alto- 
gether satisfied with the plan : are you at leisure to 
hear a little idea of my own ?” Mr. Dalton knew by 
experience these “ little ideas” took up a considerable 
time in developing, and he usually listened in ab- 
straction rather than patience, but he was too much 
interested in the subject not to be a most attentive 
auditor ; and, though he could sometimes have spared 
their exercise, he had a high idea of his wife’s abili- 
ties. 

“ I take great blame to myself,” said Mrs. Dal- 


ton. 


58 


THE TWIN SISTERS. 


“ I really do not know for what,” interrupted her 
husband. 

“ You are very kind to say so,” replied she; “but 
I do blame myself very much, I have allowed a 
false delicacy to carry me too far. I ought to have 
interfered more than I have done hitherto. I ought 
not to have allowed the dread of any invidious con- 
struction to interfere with what I knew to be right. 
Eda is, as you truly say, a good, faithful creature, 
but ignorant and prejudiced to the last degree ; I can 
forgive her dislike to myself, however unjust, but I 
now regret that I have allowed her to influence the 
children as it has done ; I do not often complain, but 
I cannot tell you how it hurt me this morning when 
the children told me, “ Indeed I was not their own 
mamma.” But it is foolish to plague you with these 
trifles.” 

“ What nonsense of Eda,” exclaimed Mr. Dalton, 
“ to put any such fancy in the children’s heads.” 

“But,” said his wife, “to go on with my plan: I 
propose that Julia should be sent to school; it is best 
that they should be seperated for a time, for they 
encourage each other in all sorts of mischief; and yet 
I wish Ellen, who is far the most delicate of the two, 
to remain at home.” 

“ You think then that Julia’s health is good,” asked 
Mr. Dalton, with marked anxiety. 

“ Indeed I do, she is a little strong, daring thing, 
and a school will be useful to her in every point of 
view.” 


THE TWIN SISTERS. 


59 


** And Ellen, shall we have a governess for her 1’’ 

“ By your leave, no, I wish her to be my pupil. I 
shall henceforth devote a portion of every morning 
to her education : I usued to be considered tolerably 
accomplished, and, if at the end of six months she 
does not improve as I expect, we can then decide on 
her accompanying her sister to school next halt 
year 

I do not see a single objection to what you pro- 
pose, we will drive over to Mrs. Dalrymple’s to-mor- 
row ; I know that her daughters were all educated at 
the same school, and she can answer all our enquires.” 
This was proceeding rather more rapidly than Mrs. 
Dalton intended : she would have liked to have chosen 
the school herself : for Mrs. Dalrymple’s advice to be 
taken interfered with her own love of patronage ; 
moreover she feared that in the course of the con- 
versation a different version of the morning’s adven- 
ture might come out, and a different view be taken of 
the children’s conduct to what she had given. Still 
one great point was gained, in Mr. Dalton consent- 
ing to a school at all : she therefore trusted to her 
own dexterity in guiding the morrow’s discourse ; 
and she knew her husband well enough to know that 
though he rarely interfered, yet he equally rarely de- 
parted from a resolution when once formed. 

The next day they drove to Mrs. Dalrymple’s. A 
winding road, through a small plantation of young 
limes, led them to the house, a light modern building 
rather convenient than large. The portico was filled 


60 


THE TWIN SISTERS. 


with plants, whose graceful arrangement bespokp 
that fine taste and eye for blended colours which 
shows that the task has been a pleasure. I believe 
the love of flowers to be as inherent in the disposi- 
tion as ai y other inclination. Nothing could be 
more cheerful than the sitting-room into which they 
were shown. Mrs. Dalrymple was surrounded by 
her youngest daughters and eldest grand-children, 
all employed, down to the little creature who sat at 
her feet engaged with a box of ivory letters. Con- 
versation was soon begun and easily maintained, for 
though quiet and rather retiring, there was a general 
ease of manner, as by a look or a kind word, Mrs* 
Dalrymple was always ready to encourage the mo- 
dest question or intelligent remark of the young people 
around her. 

Mr. Dalton, intelligent though reserved, appreciated 
the graceful and interesting circle, and grew the 
more anxious to consult Mrs. Dalrymple. He was 
too full of the subject to take an interest in any other, 
and, after the first general topics were discussed, he 
said that he should take the liberty of an old friend, 
and mention the object of their visits Mrs. Dalrymple 
had both heard more and seen more than would have- 
pleased Mrs. Dalton, but she was too judicious to 
hazard making matters worse by fruitless interfer- 
ence. Experience had long since taught her that a 
stranger rarely did any good in family affairs, but, 
now that her opinion was asked, and her advice likely 
to be followed, she at once saw how much she might 


4 


THE TWIN SISTERS. 


61 


benefit the twins, who had interested her exceedingly. 
Any home was better than their own, and if s^e 
could promote their being placed under Mrs. Wilson’s 
charge, she knew they were sure both of instruction 
and kindness: she did not therefore content herself 
with expressing merely her warm approbation of the 
establishment, but she entered at length into her 
reasons for so doing, she gave the most minute details, 
and ended by saying, “I do not so strongly recom- 
mend Mrs. Wilson’s on the usual advertising terms 
because ‘the house is in an airy situation, or, is at- 
tended by the best masters,’ but because I know 
Mrs. Wilson’s worth and kind-heartedness. Her 
being beloved, as she is, by her former scholars, is 
the highest praise that I can bestow.’’ 

Both Mr. and Mrs Dalton went home perfectly 
satisfied. He quite persuaded that a few years would 
make his daughters as highly accomplished and as 
graceful as the Misses Dalrymple, while Mrs. Dalton 
congratulated herself on the success of her scheme ; 
and the morning’s visit had led to no unpleasant sus- 
picions in her husband’s mind, as to whether her 
disinterested attachment to the twins was quite so 
genuine as she wished him to believe. All was set- 
tled during their drive home. Mrs. Dalton was going 
to town the end of the week, and Julia w^as to ac- 
company her. “ Ellen,” said she, ‘‘ will not like being 
left behind, we must think of something to console 
her.” That day after dinner, Mr. Dalton first divid- 


F 


G2 


THE TWIN SISTERS 


ed sofne preserve between Julia and Ellen, though 
his wife observed ‘‘ that an apple would be much 
more wholesome,” and while the fruit was eating he 
said “We have been seeing some such nice little girls 
to-day. One of them is not so tall as you, Ellen, and 
she can play very prettily on the piano. Should not 
you like to play too ?” 

“Oh, yes,” exclaimed both the children in a 
breath. 

“ You are growing great girls now, and you must 
not be idle all day ; you have a great deal to learn 
before you.” 

“We like to learn,” said Julia, encouraged by her 
father's manner, “ we say our lessons to Eda every 
day.” 

Mr. Dalton smiled, and added, “ But young ladies 
have a great deal more to learn than poor Eda can 
teach them. Would you not like to have some young 
friends, and to know how to dance, and to paint pic- 
tures V’ 

“ Yes,” exclaimed Julia colouring with delight. 

“You are a good girl,” replied her father, “and 
deserve to go to school. You shall go there next 
week, and learn to do so many pretty things.” 

“ Will Eda go with us V’ asked Ellen. 

“ No,” replied Mrs, Dalton, “ she is to stay at home 
to take care of you.” 

“ Am I not going to school ?” said the child in a 
faltering voice. 

“No, you are to stay at home,” answered her 


THE TWIN SISTERS. 


63 


father, with mamma and me : your, mamfna is 
going to teach you herself to play on the piano in 
the drawing-room.” The children became silent, 
at once ; their little hearts were too full to speak, 
the large tears swelled in their eyes, but they were 
afraid to shed them. 

Don’t cry,” said Mr. Dalton, ‘‘ you are too old 
to be babies now, go and tell Eda the good news of 
how cleaver you are soon to be.” 

I thought,” observed Mrs. Dalton, as they left 
the room, “ that Ellen would not like to stay at 
home.” 

It is very natural,” replied her husband, she 
and her sister have never been parted before — Per- 
haps it would be best to let both go to school.” 

‘‘ Nay, nay,” she exclaimed, “ I will not be robbed 
of my little pupil : you know, my dear, you are al- 
ways out in the morning, and Ellen’s education will 
fill up my solitary hours : besides, she is not strong 
enough for school.’’ No more was said, and early 
the next morning Mr. Dalton set off to a distant part 
of the country whence he was to join his wife in Lon- 
don. The two children had hurried to the nursery, 
and, throwing themselves at Eda’s feet, and hiding 
their faces in her lap, gave way to the tears they had 
with such difficulty suppressed. It was long before 
their nurse could learn the cause of such passionate 
grief; at last, she distinguished the broken words of 
going to school.” And is that all,” exclaimed she, 
“ why you ought to be glad— you will learn so many 


61 


THE TWIN SISTERS. 


things that you ought to know : do you remember 
how your poor mother used to play, and how you 
used to sit beside the piano ? I am sure you will be 
such good children, and when you come back you 
will have so many things to tell us,” 

‘‘Ah but,” replied Julia, in a voice choaked with 
sobs, “ I am going without Ellen.” 

“ I am to stay,” continued Ellen, in an equally in- 
audible tone, “ at home, for our new Mamma to 
teach.” For once, Eda had not a word to say. She 
clasped the children in her arms, and, unable to con- 
ceal her emotion, wept over them bitterly. She 
knew the devoted affection of the twins to each other, 
and to part them seemed refinement in cruelty. As 
to Ellen, she trembled to think of the teaching in 
preparation. It was dreadful to think how her poor 
spirit would be cheeked, and her young temper em- 
bittered by the perpetual harshness and undue ex- 
pectations of Mrs. Dalton. Julia might do well, she 
was a quick and cleaver child, while her generous 
and affectionate temper would surely win its own 
way, and make friends for itself. But poor Ellen, 
whatever she did, would be sure to be wrong: Mrs. 
Dalton had no kindness in her nature, fault-finding 
was the very element in which she lived, and the 
child was so timid that reproof incapacitated her from 
exertion. Eda, saving when she lost the mistress 
whom she loved as her child, had never felt a keener 
pang — still she felt that her indulgence in sorrow 
rather added to the mischief. The sight of her grief 


THE TWm SISTERS. 65 

increased that of the twins, and, what was worse, 
made them think it right to indulge in complaints. 

“ I am a foolish old woman,’' said she at last, “ to 
cry, when I ought to be glad.” The word glad 
choaked her as she said it — and she paused for a mo- 
ment, but Ed a had a strength of mind and an upright- 
ness of principle that would have done honour to any 
state, or any education. She saw that in the present 
instance it was at once a kindness and a duty to en- 
courage them as much as possible. It was a hard 
task — but at least it should not want her affectionate 
efforts. “ Surely, Ellen,” continued she, ‘‘ my dar- 
ling does not cry because she is to stay and take care 
of her poor old nurse !” The child raised her head, 
and, clasping her arms round her neck, tried to speak, 
but could only kiss her, and sob out some inarticu- 
late words. Still after a little time Ed a soothed them 
into composure sufficient for attention. To Julia 
she dwelt on the advantages of going to school. 
« Why you will be able to teach your sister when 
you come home while to Ellen she rather talked of 
herself. “ I could not bear to loose both of you at 
once — I know the time must come.” 

** No, no,” interrupted the children, when we are 
grown up, you shall always live with us.” 

‘‘But it is a longtime till then,” continued Eda, 
“ and many things may happen. Both of you may 
go to school next year, I shall be used to be alone by 
that time ; but I could not have parted with you both at 
once — Ellen must try and attend to what her Mam- 
F 2 


66 


THE TWIN SISTERS. 


ma tells her.” A deep sigh w’as the child’s only answ^er; 
and their nurse went on trying to look forward and to 
anticipate their next nneeting. They went to bed, 
but when Eda leant over their pillow, the last thing 
at night, she saw, from the yet glittering eye-lash, and 
the feverish cheek, that they had cried themselves to 
sleep — often and often, during the following days, did 
the tears start into her own eyes to see how the chil- 
dren clung to each other — Ellen seemed afraid to lose 
sight of Julia for one moment; and Julia, generally 
the most active of the two, could scarcely be prevail- 
ed upon to move, if thereby she loosed hold of her 
sister’s hand. 

The evening of the last day came — It w^as in June, 
and the w^eather had been unusually hot : — to go out 
during the morning had been impossible; but the 
children had been anxiously aw^aiting the cooler after- 
noon to visit, for the last time, all their fav^ourite 
haunts. The long shadows were now resting on the 
park, and those red hues were beginning to gather 
on the clouds which so soon flush into crimson and 
as soon fade. Scarcely had they set out, before a 
message came from Mrs. Dalton, who had seen them 
from the window, and had sent for them. She wish- 
ed, she said, to give Julia some advice about her be- 
haviour at school. Alas, for the weary hours now 
passed on two small upright chairs, listening to a suc- 
cession of reproofs; “ As to Julia, I am sure, if I were 
her, I should be ashamed of going to school such a 
dunce — ^the youngest child in it wdll laugh at her. I 


THE TWIN SISTERS. 


67 


expect that you will pass the next half-year in the 
corner, with a foolscap on. You will find it very 
different to being spoilt, as you are at home : I shall 
have trouble enough with Ellen. Are you dumb, 
child 1 Though, I believe you can find your tongue 
fast enough when you are with servants.” At last, 
quite tired out, and taking a sort of courage from 
despair, Julia asked if they might go and finish their 
walk, and bid goodbye to Mrs. Whyte? The old 
housekeeper lived now in the village. 

I will have nothing of the kind,” cried Mrs. Dal- 
ton, you have enough to do with servants in the 
house, without going out in search of them ; and as 
to Julia, going walking herself to death, I will not 
hear of it. Terrible as it is, you will have to pass 
the whole evening quietly with me.” And the whole 
evening did she keep the two poor children seated, 
without the least employ or amusement till an hour 
considerably past their usual time of going to bed pale 
and tired enough : when at length she allowed them 
to leave the apartment. Such was Mrs. Dalton’s 
character — unkind, selfish and tyrannical : she de- 
lighted in the exercise of petty authority. How many 
children, discontented with the exercise of needful 
authority, might learn submission and thankfulness 
from the lot of others ; such a temper as that we have 
been describing is very uncommon ; the treatment of 
children oftener errs on the side of over-indulgence 
than aught else. How many might bs taught better 
to appreciate the blessings which surround them by 


68 


the twin sisters. 


considering what some, less fortunate than themselves, 
are called upon to endure ! Weary as they were, be- 
fore they retired to rest, the twins resolved to rise 
early the following morning, and to take their pur- 
posed walk. “ I shall not be able to go as far sis Mrs. 
Whyte’s, but Ellen will carry her my good-bye and the 
needle book which I have worked her. We can go 
and see the poor old pond and the lime-walk.” Eda, 
though she resolved not to rouse the children, tired 
as they seemed, if they should be sleeping in the 
morning, made no opposition to the scheme. 

Too excited for sleep, they rose almost with the 
sun, and hurried to take their farewell walk. How 
many an old tree did they linger beside, like a fami- 
liar friend ! What handfuls of flowers were gathered 
in a spirit of the tenderest remembrance. They had 
no longer gardens of their own. Mrs. Dalton had 
chosen their little plot of ground to have some seeds, 
about which she was very particular, sown. — They 
never came up, which the old gardener said was “ a 
judgement upon her.” It must be confessed that it 
was a judgment originating in himself ; still there 
was an end to the children’s garden, the lady having 
decided that gardening was very unfit employment 
for young ladies, and that they were so tanned they 
would soon be not fit to be seen. 

They had now entered the park, and, as they expect- 
ed, two tame deer came up, and, gazing at them with 
their large eyes, waited for their portion of bread. 
Julia could not feed her’s for the last time without cry- 


THE TWIN SISTERS. 


69 


ing — and Ellen cried tor sympathy. “ You will have 
to feed mine to-morrow and the child leant down 
to kiss the head of her graceful favourite. “Well,” 
continued she, “ they would miss both, they will not 
miss only one.” The bread was soon eaten, and the 
deer bounded away over the dewy grass. Julia 
watched them till the thicket hid them from her sight, 
and at that moment the whole herd, bounding along 
— scattered the dew like light from the sparkling her- 
bage over which they hurried. The sunshine found 
a mirror in every blade of lucid grass — in every leaf 
, that hung from the boughs — one bright drop, glisten- 
ing at every slender point. The branches seemed 
fiilled with birds singing as if in welcome to the glad 
morning; while the flowers around wore the fresh 
bright colours which they unfold to the native wind, 
with the sweets that night has garnered in each fold- 
ed blossom. “ How cheerful every thing looks,” ex- 
claimed Julia: “just as if I were not going away!” 
Poor child, she and her sister walked on hand in hand, 
casting sorrowful looks at the shining leaves, and the 
sweet flowers, which had so long been their com- 
panions. To their young eyes a shadow rested on all 
they saw, they were now learning the bitter lesson 
how the little world of the human heart gives its own 
likeness to the vast universe of which it is but an 
atom. 

But the long shadow's of the early morning began 
to shorten, and the children, hurrying to an old sun- 
dial that stood beside the lake in the park, saw that 


70 


THE TWIN SISTERS. 


it was time to return home. They only staid to give 
the remainder of the bread to the swans that came 
sweeping over the bright expanse at their approach. 
“ Good bye,’^ again exclaimed Julia in a scarcely 
audible whisper, and snatching her sister’s hand, they 
ran in silence to the house. Eda and breakfast were 
waiting for them, but the hearts of all were too full 
to eat. 'I he nurse was the only one who attempted to 
speak cheerfully, but, at last, even her voice failed. 
They heard the carriage come round to the door, and 
all started up from the untasted meal ; a few minutes 
were given to the bustle of preparation, when Eda 
having taken care that there should not be a moment’s 
delay to irritate Mrs. Dalton, took Julia on her knee, 
and said, in an earnest and, at first, a calm voice, “ Y ou 
are going away, my own darling child, going, I trust 
in God, for your own good ; you will have to learn 
many things which your poor Eda could not teach 
you. But you will not forget what she has taught 
you, to be a good child, always to speak the truth, 
and when you say your prayers at night, think if you 
deserve to pray for your sister. God bless you, my 
dearest, God bless you and she kissed the weeping 
child, her tears fast mingling with those which Julia 
was shedding. “ Dry your eyes, my own darling,’’ 
exclaimed Eda, for at that moment a servant an- 
nounced “ that the carriage was ready.” 

Eda led the two children into the hall, which Mrs. 
Dalton had just entered. “ What a figure,” she 
said, in a harsh tone, “ those children have made 


THE TWIIV SISTER.'^. 


71 


themselves with crying : there, good by, I can’t be 
kept waiting all day.” She stepped into the carriage. 
“ Keep this for my sake,” whispered her nurse, as 
she gave Julia a little book. Still the children clung 
together, and Eda was herself obliged to part their 
hands and lift Julia into her place by Mrs. Dalton’s 
side. They drove rapidly off, and perhaps the jour- 
ney may be best summed up by the account which 
the Jady’s maid gave of it. That truly her mistress 
w^as enough to plague the very life out of the poor 
little patient creature, who scarce ever opened her 
lips.” 

The day after their arrival in London, Mrs. Dalton 
took Julia to school. Mrs. Wilson lived at Richmond, 
one of those large old houses which look at once 
airy and substantial. The garden, towards the lonely 
and sheltered road, was small, but through the iron 
railings were visible two neatly kept beds of annual 
flowers embedded in turf of emerald green. The hall, 
with its large oaken staircase, opened into another 
garden apparently of considerable extent, and on one 
side was the sitting-room into which they were shewn. 
It was filled with the various trifles which female 
ingenuity creates, evincing at least an ample share of 
taste and industry. Now if idleness be, as the old 
copy-books have it, “the root of all evil,” industry is 
no less the root of all good. 

Mrs. Wilson soon made her appearance, she was a 
lady-like looking person, with very kind and cheerful 
manners. Julia was sent to see the garden, at Mrs. 


72 


THE TWIN SISTERS. 


Dalton’s desire, who immediately addressed Mrs. 
Wilson on the subject : “ I wdshed to speak to you 
about your pupil, for I really think it right to put you 
on your guard ; she is a terrible naughty child, artful 
far beyond her years.’’ 

‘‘ And with such a sweet open countenance,” ex- 
claimed Mrs. Wilson. 

“ Appearances are very decitful,” continued her 
visitor. I really can hardly reconcil it to my con- 
science to leave such a torment with a stranger, but 
she is far beyond our management at home. I own 
that I have been to blame, but you can enter into my 
feelings, it was natural to err on the side of over in- 
dulgence.” She now rose to depart, adding, ‘‘ I will 
not ask to see Julia, for she will be sure to cry to 
come away with me. I therefore leave her in your 
good care, and only hope you will have less trouble 
with her than I have. No doubt school will do won- 
ders for her.” 

‘‘How unreasonable people are,” thought Mrs. 
Wilson to herself, as she returned from the door to 
which she had conducted her visitor. “ First, chil- 
dren are allowed to have their own way in every 
thing, reasonable or unreasonable. They are taught 
a thousand unnecessary wants, encouraged in a thou- 
sand foolish and injurious practices, are, in short ut- 
terly spoilt, and unused to restraint, employment, or 
reproof — are sent to me, indeed, expecting that “ my 
schooll will do wanders for them.” Still that little 
girl has such a sweet countenance, she looked so pale. 


THE TWIN SISTERS. 


73 


so delicate, and so gentle, that I cannot help being 
interested in her.” 

That night at supper Mrs. Wilson’s first question 
to the teacher, under whose care Julia was more 
especially placed, was What do you think of our 
new pupil?” 

‘‘ That she is the most beautiful and quiet little 
creature that I ever saw. But she is sadly home-sick. 
We asked her if she had any sisters, and she could 
scarcely tell us that she had one, whose name was 
Ellen, for sobbing. Her only anxiety seems to be to 
take care of a little book — a prayer-book — which she 
has kept in her hand, and now has under her pillow. 
There is something written at the beginning, but, as 
she was careful of it, I asked no questions.” Poor 
Julia! this was another night of the many during 
which she had cried herself to sleep. Accustomed to 
the quiet and seclusion of the nursery, the number of 
new faces frightened her. She was not used to com- 
panions of her own age, she had no amusements in 
common with theirs, yet they were something like 
Ellen — but alas they were not her. 

The next day, Mrs. Wilson sent for the stranger to 
her own room, to judge, herself, what her small stock 
of acquirements might be. Julia came, one hand 
clasping Eda’s parting gift, and the other bearing 
the volume in which she was to read. Pale, trem- 
bling, the tears starting from her eyes, she in vain 
endeavoured to answer when Mrs. Wilson addressed 
her. Surprised at what was even more terror than 


G 


74 


THE TWIN SISTERS. 


timidity, Mrs. Wilson sought by every means to en- 
courage her; she made her sit on a stool at her side, 
and only asked her a few simple questions. The fact 
was that Mrs. Dalton had filled the child^s head with 
the most exaggerated ideas of what would be requir- 
ed of her, and of the severity which her defioiencieg 
would inevitably provoke. What with fear and the 
fatigue of the journey, sorrow, want of food — for her 
little heart had been too full to eat, Julia was quite 
exhausted. Mrs. Wilson, though with some difficulty, 
made her take some milk which she sent for, and a 
piece of seed cake, and allowed her to remain unno- 
ticed till her little visitor had somewhat recovered her 
spirits. 

“Will you not,” said her new friend, “let me see 
the book which you are carrying about so carefully ? 
It is a very pretty prayer-book.” Julia immediately 
rose and offered the volume, which Mrs. Wilson 
opened : on the first page there appeared some legi- 
ble, but very peculiar, hand-writing, more resembling 
Arabic than English characters. The inscription 
was as follows : “ To Julia Dalton, from her affec- 

tionate nurse, who hopes God will bless her, and keep 
her the same good girl, till she comes home again. 
Eda.” 

“ Your nurse, I see,” observed Mrs. Wilson, giving 
back the book with an encouraging smile, “ gives you 
a good character ; so we shall expect you to be very 
good here.’^ 


TRE TWIN SISTERS. 


75 


I will try,” answered Julia, lifting up her dark 
eyes in which the tears yet lingered. 

“ Then I am sure that you will succeed. Let 
me hear how you can read.” Julia opened the vol- 
ume, at first her voice faltered, but her companions 
re-assured her, and she read a portion with distinct- 
ness and a natural grace, and answered the few ques- 
tions put afterwards in a manner that showed she 
quite understood what she had been reading. 

“ Your mamma must have taken a great deal of 
pains with you,” observed her new instructress. 

' You must now try and take pains with yourself. 
I am sure you love your mamma, and would wish to 
please her.” 

“ I do not love her, and do not wish to please her,” 
answered Julia. 

Fie, fie,” exclaimed the governess, “you must 
not say so.” 

“ Eda,” replied the child, meekly, but steadily, 
“ told me I was always to speak the truth.” 

“ But surely you ought to love your mamma, who 
has taken so much trouble in teaching you to read?” 

“ I do not love her, for she does not love us, and 
she did not teach me to read.” 

“ Who taught you to read ?” 

' “ Eda : and she taught us to say our prayers, and 
to pray for the new mamma; but she has not told us 
to love her for a long while.” Mrs. Wilson at once 
saw that this was a case in which silence was the 
only resource ; and telling the child that she had reud 


76 


THE TWIN SISTERS. 


very well, sent her to water some of her favourite 
geraniums. “ They are to be under your care, Julia, 
while you are a good girl.” 

Julia’s great loveliness, for it was impossible to 
look upon her sweet face without pleasure, her gentle 
temper, and constant readiness to oblige, soon made 
her an universal favourite. The youngest in the 
school — she was the general pet — and yet so good 
that the care of the geraniums was never taken from 
her one single morning; but Mrs. Wilson observed, 
with regret, that the child had not spirits belonging 
to her age — she was always gentle and tractable ; 
but the moment she could escape from the caresses 
lavished upon her, she would retreat into the darkest 
corner, and cry for hours together. Still she trusted 
that constant kindness would in time w’ork out its ef- 
fect, and that, once accustomed to the place, and in- 
terested in the pursuits allotted to her, she would 
grow less home- sick, and strengthen alike in mind 
and body. 

In the meantime, Mrs. Dalton had commenced the 
education of Ellen — great preparations were made in 
the first instance : grammars catechisms, histories 
and geographies made easy, maps and multiplication 
tables, were mingled with boxes of colours, and 
pieces of music. Moreover, a back-board and col- 
lar, a pair of stocks, another of dumb bells, and a 
small upright chair, showed that the body was to be 
put into as much training as the mind. Every morn- 
ing Ellen was to go down into Mrs. Dalton’s room 


THE TWIN SISTERS. 


77 


and stay there till three. Day after day she used to 
return to the nursery, pale, spiritless, and turning 
with absolute loathing from the dinner which awaited 
her. The evenings were the long and beautiful ones in 
summer, but she could scarely be prevailed on to 
walk. To rest her head on Eda’s knee, without 
speaking, was all to which she seemed equal. Her 
kind old nurse trusted that Mrs. Dalton’s taste for 
teaching would soon wear itself out^so it did : but 
not so her taste for tormenting. She liked to talk of 
the sacrifice she made of her mornings — of her devo^ 
tion to Mr. Dalton’s children — and she also liked 
complaining of Ellen’s stupidity and obstinacy. She 
liked, even better than all, the petty authority which 
she exercised; and the unfortunate child was kept 
for hours in a painful and constrained attitude poring 
over lessons quite beyond her powers of comprehension 
harrassed by perpetual reproof, and encouraged by 
no prospect of praise or success. But all these trou- 
bles were light when weighed in the balance against 
the one paramount over all. 

Ellen pined for her sister — she could find no 
pleasure in any of the employments that they were 
wont to pursue together. True, she went every morn- 
ing, that the weather at all permitted, to feed their 
favourite deer, but it was a task never fulfilled with- 
out tears : she took no pleasure in any of their former 
amusements — a beautiful flower only drew from her 
the exclamation of, I wish Julia were here to see 
iL” She put away their playthings till Julia came 
G 2 


78 


THE TWIN SISTERS. 


back again : and would interrupt Eda when she be- 
gan to tell an interesting story — that it might be kept 
till Julia could hear it too. The affectionate nurse 
became daily more alarmed for her darling’s health. 
True, to an indifferent observer, Ellen did not look 
ill : — her eyes were unnaturally bright, and the least 
emotion sent the rich colour into her cheek — but Eda 
knew those hectic symptoms only too well ; it was 
not the first time that she had watched their deceiv- 
ing progress. She knew too that the child’s nights 
were restless and feverish, that appetite she had none, 
and that, when worn out by the exertion of the morn- 
ing, the rest of the day was spent in a state almost 
amounting to stupor. One morning Ellen, after ris- 
ing, was seized with a sudden faintness ; and, when 
recovered, seemed so totally unequal to the labour of 
lessons, that Eda felt herself fully justified in sending 
an excuse to Mrs. Dalton. 

The very idea of being left quiet revived her; she 
drew her little stool to the open window, and sat still, 
without desiring more enjoyment than the fresh air 
and the perfect quiet. About an hour had so elapsed, 
and Ellen was beginning to raise her lanquid head, 
when a step only too well known, was heard on the 
stairs, and the door, rudely thrown open, announced 
the approach of Mrs. Dalton. “Just as I thought,” 
said she, in an angry tone, “ a mere idle excuse, and 
Ellen is the idlest child in the world— she only want- 
ed to waste her time in doing nothing ; but for once, 
you Will find yourself mistaken — you will have the 


THE TWIN SISTERS. 


79 


goodness, young lady, to come down stairs at once. 
I will see if I cannot find a cure for your head-ache.” 
Ellen rose from her seat with a bewildered air, and, 
accustomed to implicit obedience, prepared, though 
wdth trembling steps, to follow, turning pale as death, 
Eda had hitherto stood by in silence. Aware of how 
little good her interference could effect, she always 
tried to avoid any ineffectual opposition that might 
afterwards be turned against herself ; but here she 
could forbear no longer. Addressing Mrs. Dalton 
in the most respectful tone, she said, “ I do not think. 
Madam, that you are quite aware of how ill Miss 
Ellen is; she has not tasted a morsel to-day.’’ 

“ You are always,” exclaimed Mrs. Dalton an- 
grily, “ making these children fancy themselves ill. 
You coddle them till they fancy they are like no one 
else. Come, Ellen, you have already dawdled half 
the morning away.” The child walked a few steps 
feebly — and then, staggering towards Eda, sank again 
insensible, and would have fallen — but, that her nurse, 
who had seen her change countenance, was in time 
to catch her up in her arms. Mrs. Dalton was now 
thoroughly alarmed — she disliked the children from 
a petty jealousy — and she domineered over them from 
a naturally despotic temper, made worse from con- 
stant indulgence; but she did not want the common 
humanity which shudders at the sight of positive suf- 
fering. She rang the bell hastily for assistance, open- 
ed the window to its utmost extent, for more air, 
and ran herself to gel salts and lavender water. 


80 


THE TWIN SISTERS. 


During the morning, her visits to the nursery were 
so frequent that Eda was forced to insist upon the 
necessity of keeping the patient quiet ; and Mrs. Dal- 
ton acquiesced the more readily as she was some- 
what recovered from her first fright, and had done 
enough to establish the reputation of anxiety and at- 
tention, But the misfortunes of the day were not yet 
at a close : while sitting after dinner with Mr. Dalton 
a letter was brought. She opened it and found that 
it came from Mrs. Wilson and the contents 'w^ere as 
follows : 

‘ Dear Madam. 

It is with great regret that I find myself 
obliged to state that the health of my sweet little pupil, 
Julia Dalton, is such that I fear further care or atten- 
tion on my part is unavailing. Her native air will I 
trust do much for her, and her return to the sister 
for whom she pines will, it appears to me, remove 
the greatest obstacle to her recovery. I part from 
the dear child with extreme pain, for a more gentle 
or .affectionate little creature I have never known. 
With best compliments, I remain. 

Year’s very truly, 
M. Wilson.” 

Mrs. Dalton could scarcely muster sufficient self- 
command to give the letter to her husband ; for once, 
she found herself without words. Mr. Dalton read 
the letter without speaking — the moment it was finish- 
ed he rang the bell violently Order post horses 


THE TWIN SISTERS. 


81 


immediately,” said he, in a scarcely audible voice to 
the servant. 

“ What do you intend to do?” exclaimed Mrs. 
Dalton, who had taken to the ordinary resource of 
crying, and was now seated with her face hurried in 
her handkerchief. “I mean to go and fetch Julia 
without an hour^s delay. I only hope that it will not 
be too late — I wish to God that I had never consent- 
ed to part those children.” 

“We did it for the best,” sobbed Mrs. Dalton, “ but 
had you not better let me accompany you ?” 

“ It would only be loss of time, I shall travel all 
night, and shall hope to have Julia home before the 
afternoon, to-morrow : you will take care of Ellen, 
and tell her that her sister is comming home.” There 
was much in this arrangement that Mrs. Dalton both 
feared and disliked, but she saw that opposition was 
fruitless, and so set about making the few preparations 
needful with as good a grace as she could assume. 
The carriage soon came round to the door, and Mr. 
Dalton set off urging the postilions to their utmost 
speed, He arrived at Richmond early the following 
morning, sent a messenger to Mrs. Wilson, and was 
at the door, ready again for immediate departure, be- 
fore ten o’clock. Julia was quite ready, but in spite 
of the flush which the hope of seeing her sister had 
brought to her face, her father was shocked at the 
alteration. At first she shrank back timidly, but the 
kindness of his manner brought her instantly to his 
knee, and she whispered an inquiry after Ellen. Mr. 


82 


THE TWIN SISTERS. 


Dalton was shocked to find, as he lifted her into the 
carriage, that she was light as a baby in his arms. 

‘‘ But you do not ask how mamma is,” said her 
father, chiefly by way of engaging her in some dis- 
course. ‘‘ I did not want to know,” said Julia. He 
thought this reply deserved a reproof, but he had not 
the heart to give it to the little emaciated being whose 
head rested on his arm, while he held the small and 
feverish hand in his. During the early part of the 
journey — the excitement of the movement, and the 
joy of returning home, put Julia in a flutter of spirits 
that made her more than ready, eager, to talk. Her 
father learnt quite enough during the conversation to 
know why Julia did not wish to hear ho'w-her new 
mamma might be. Mr. Dalton listened to the sweet 
low voice that so artlessly confided all its small store 
of hopes and regrets, with a pang of bitter self-re- 
proach. He blamed himself more than he blamed his 
wife, and soon, when Julia, exhausted by the over 
excitement, became silent, and content to look up in 
his face, and clasp his hand as if desirious of assuring 
herself that she really was with her father and return- 
ing home, then he had ample leisure for regret. He 
scarcely observed j;he road, when Julia started up 
with a shriek of delight, and, exclaiming, “ I see them, 
I see them,” pointed out to his attention a clump of 
old oaks, which, growing on an ascent in the Park, 
were visible at a considerable distance. But even 
Julia’s delight was not sufficient to counter-balance 
the fatigue of the journey ; she raised her head from 


THE TWIN SISTERS. 


83 


time to time to look out for familiar objects, she had 
not strength to sit up ; a burst of gladness as they en- 
tered the avenue quite overcame her, and, when the 
carriage stopped, she clung with all the strength of 
hysterical agitation to her father, and implored him 
to take her at once to her nurse. 

He took her in his arms, past hastily through the 
hall, and went direct to the nursery — Ellen was in 
bed, from which she sprang when she saw her sister. 
“ I told you, I heard the carriage,” and the next mo- 
ment the twins were in each other’s arms, and the af- 
fectionate Indian stood over them crying like a child. 
A loud cry from Julia, as her sister sank from her 
arms on the floor, was the first thing that recalled 
Eda to herself. She caught the child up and saw 
that a small stream of blood was slowly swelling from 
her lips, while her face was deadly pale. With that 
force which fear often gives, she bore her to the win- 
dow, and flung open the casement. Mr. Dalton 
stood for a moment stupified, but catching Eda’s eye, 
he exclaimed, “ For the love of heaven, a surgeon.” 
And he rushed at once from the room — Once, and 
only once, Ellen again opened her eyes — she looked 
anxiously round and muttered some indistinct sounds. 
Her sister who, from fright and fatigue, was incapa- 
ble of • moving— had been laid on her bed; by a 
mutual impulse, they again extented their arms to 
each other — their faces touched, and they sank, as if 
to sleep, but it was a sleep from which they never 
waked more 1 


64 


THE TWIN SISTERS* 


Mr. Dalton, who had himself gallopped to the 
neighbouring town, as if life and death were indeed 
upon his speed, now white with agitation, entered the 
chamber accompanied by the medical attendant. 
One look was sufficient. The twins lay each in the 
other’s arms, Julia’s bright auburn hair mingling with 
Ellen’s darker curls. The colour had left both lip 
and cheek, and the features, pale and sculptured, were 
like the marble to which Chantry imparts an exis- 
tence, at once so tender, and yet so sad. The wretch- 
ed father signed to the attendants to leave the room ; 
all obeyed but one, and she was stupified with this 
last excess of sorrow. Mr. Dalton left the room un- 
conscious of her presence. 

A week, a dreary week, had elasped — and it was 
the morning of the funeral. In the very room where 
the young and unfortunate mother had rested in her 
shroud ere she was restored to Earth — were two small 
coffins — the lids were closed — human eye had looked 
its last on the mournful remains below. Yet one stood 
gazing upon them as if unable to tear herself away : 
it was the Indian nurse, in whose face that week had 
written death. She stood there pale, ghastly, more 
like a spectre than a human being, yet bound to that 
spot by the strong ties of earthly affection. Slowly 
the door opened, and Mr. Dalton entered : he started 
on seeing Eda, who at once came forward; and, 
grasping his arm with a force of which her emaciated 
hand might have seemed incapable, exclaimed in a 
hollow, yet fierce, tone : 


TIIS TWIN SISTERS. 


85 


The lids are closed, we shall never look on those 
sweet faces again, of your own heart if you 

deserve to see them — She who is now an angel in 
heaven spent her last breath in blessing you. Would 
she have so blessed you, think ye, had she known 
that, pass away but a few fleeting -months, and ano- 
ther would take her place, at your side, and in your 
house? That her children would be given over to a 
stranger, till they sickened for want of those kind 
wmrds which they never heard but from the mouth of 
the old Indian woman. Had you gone down to the 
grave first, would she have so forgotten your memory; 
would she have so deserted your children?’’ Mr. 
Dalton leant against the mantel-piece, and Eda saw 
a convulsion of subdued agony pass over the face, 
which he immediately concealed — again she laid her 
hand upon his arm, but this time the touch was light, 
and the voice was subdued and broken : “ Husband 

of her whom I loved even as a daughter; Father of 
those who were even as dear ; for their sakes, I would 
not part from you in unkindness. With these little 
coffins, I leave your house ; and, like them, I leave it, 
never to return.” 

Mr. Dalton started at this address, and subdued his 
emotion by a strong effort, and, taking the aged wo- 
man’s hand, kindly said : “ While this house owns 
me for master, it is your home ; and the home of none 
who do not treat you wffth kindness and with res- 
pect.” 

“ I could not live here,” exclaimed she, the light 

H 


80 


THE TWIN SISTERS. 


and the music are put away together; the few days 
which may yet be allotted unto me, upon this weary 
earth, I shall spend with an old servant of your own, 
Mrs. Whyte: her dwelling looks upon the church 
where” — Eda’s voice became inarticulate, and an 
unbroken silence of some minutes ensued. Mr. Dal- 
ton then said, “ At least, I can make yonr old age com- 
fortable ; this pocket-book does not even contain your 
due — but” — The Indian flung the offered money from 
her, and drawing herself up to her full height, said, 
with a dignity which might have belonged to the east- 
ern queens of her line : 

“ Not for the wages of an hired servant have I 
staid in your house ; nor will I take them. I owe 
nothing to you but the shelter of a roof which was 
begrudged me ; and the bread which was steeped in 
the tears of bitterness. For the love of those who 
are no more, I have endured taunts, and cold looks, 
and harsh words: — do you think that I will be paid 
for them — do you think you can pay me ? Let us, 
I pray of you, for her sake, part in kindness. Fare- 
well, God bless you.” She wrung his hand ; and, be- 
fore he could speak, she had left the room Eda 

never entered the house again. The twins were 
buried in the family vault. And the skill of the sculp- 
tor was taxed for their monument. The marble gave 
their likeness, as they lay folded in each other’s arms, 
in their last pale sleep. Beautiful they looked — and 
sad — yet not a sadness without hope. 

In the summer’s heat, and in the winter’s cold, came 


THE TWIiV SISTERS. 


87 


the aged Indian woman, to weep and to pray as she 
knelt before the mournfid statues of those who were 
the children of her heart. One day, they found her, 
in her usual attitude — her eyes fixed on the sculpture, 
her hands clasped, as if in earnest prayer. But the 
eyes were closed — and the hands rigid — God had, in 
his mercy, released her; and the faithful and afiec- 
tionate Indian had died in the very act of praying by 
those whom she had loved so dearly and so well. 
They were going to bury her in the church-yard ; but, 
at Mr. Dalton’s command, the family vault was open- 
ed and they laid her at the feet of her mistress. 


88 


THE LITTLE BOY’S BED-TIME. 

Translated from Madame Desborde Valmore. 

Hush ! no more fire, no noise — all round is still. 

See the pale moon hath on th’ horizon risen 

While thou wert speaken. Victor Hcgo- 


Sleeb, little Paul, what, erying, hush ! the night is very dark j 
The wolves are near the rampart, the dogs begin to bark ; 

The bell has rung for slumber, and the guardian angel weeps 
When a little child beside the hearth so late a play-lime keeps. 

“ I will not always go to sleep, I like to watch the light 
Of the fire upon my sabre, so glittering and so bright ; 

And I will keep the w'olves at bay, if they approach the door 
And again the little naughty one sat undrest upon the floor. 

“ My God ! forgive the wayward child who mocks his motlier’s w’ord 
Oh Thou ! the long in suffering ! whose wrath is slowly stirr’d ; 
Knowledge within the opening soul has but a feeble ray, 

Wait till he knows Thy graciousness ! wait till a future day. 

^ The little birds since set of sun are plunged in slumbers deep ; 
The long grass and the lonely trees are filled with them asleep ; 

The little birds, new from the shell, have left the topmost bough. 

And ’neath the midnight’s trembling shade they all are resting now, 

“ Closed is the dove-cot, quiet there the cooing pigeons rest, 

The azure w'aters rock beneath the sleeping swan’s white breast ; 
Paul, three times has the careful hen counted her brood anew ; 

'I’hej^ sleep within her sheltering wings, but, Paul, I wait for yoq. 


81 ) 


THE LITTLE BOy’s BED-TIME. 

The sinking moon looks down from heaven her last farewell to take. 
And, pale and angry, asks, ‘ Who is the child I see awake V 
Lo ! there upon her cloudy bed she is already laid. 

And sleeps within the circle dark ofmidnight’s dusky shade. 

• 

“ The little beggar, only he, is wandering in the street, ^ 

Poor sufferer ! at such an hour, with cold and tired feet. 

He wanders wearily, and hangs his little languid head ; 

IIow glad, how thankful would he be for a soft warm bed.” 

Then little Paul, though watchipg still anxious bis shining sword. 
Folded his clothes and laid him dpvvn without another word: 

And soon his mother bent to kiss his eyelids’ deep repose. 

Tranquil and sweet as angel hands had bade those eyelids close. 


‘ 90 

THE SAILOR. 

Now tell m? of my brother, 

So far away at sea ; 

Amid the Indian islands, 

Of which you read to me. 

I wish that I were with him, 

Then I should see on high 

Tiie tall and stately cocoa, 

That rises mid the sky. 

But only round the summit 
1 he feathery leaves are seen, 

Like the plumes of some great warrior, 
It spreads its shining green. 

And there the flowers are brighter 
Than any that I know^; 

And the birds have purple plumage. 
And wings of crimson glow. 

There grow cinnamon and spices. 

And, for a mile and more, 

The cool sweet gales of evening 
Bring perfume from the shore. 

Amid those sunny islands 
His good ship has to roamt 

Amid so many wonders 
He must forget his home. 


THE SAILOR. 

And yet his native valley 
How fair it is to-day ! 

I hear the brook below us , 

Go singing on its w^y* 

Amid its water lilies 

He launch’d his first small boat — • 

He taught me how to build them, 
And how to make them float. 

And there too are the yew trees 
From whence he cut his bow; 

Mournfully are they sweeping 
The long green grass below. 

It is the lonly churchyard, 

And many tombs are there ; 

On one no weeds are growing. 

But many a flower is fair. 

Though lovely are the countries 
That lie beyond the wave. 

He will not find among them 
Our mother’s early grave. 

I fear not for the summer. 

However bright it be : 

^ly heart says that my brother 
Will seek his home and me. 


91 


92 


THE LADY MARIAN. 

• 

Her silken cloak hrbund her thrown, 
Lined with the soft brown fur, 

So that no wind, howe’er it blew, 
Could blow too rough on her. 

The lady Marian thus went forth. 

To breath the opening day; 

Two snow-white ponies drew the chair 
That bore her on her way. 

A little page upheld the reins, 

Who, drest in gold and green, 

Might have seem’d fitting charipteer 
To her the fairy queen. 

The graceful equipage drove on, 

And sought the woodland shade ; 

Where boughs of aspen and of birch 
A pleasant shelter made. 

A murmur musical and sad 
Disturbed the noon -tide rest ; 

For balanced on each topmost branch 
Hung the wood pigeons’ nest 

But soon amid the parting trees 
There came a gladder song; 

For, fill’d with music and with light, 

A small brook danced alonsr. 

o 


THE LADY MARIAiV 


93 


The sQiall brook had a cheerful song, 

But one more cheerful still, 

The song of childhood in its mirth, 

Came o’er its sunny rill. 

Over the silvery wave which shewed 
The pebbles white below, 

Where cool beneath the running stream 
The water-cresses grow ; 

A little maiden gathering them. 

Bent down with natural grace ; 

The sunshine touch’d her auburn hair, 

The rose was on her face. 

A rose accustomed to the sun, 

Which gave a richer hue 

Than ever pale and lanquid flower 
Within a hot-honse knew, 

Blessing the child within her heart, 

Marian past thoughtfully by. 

And long the child watch’d thro’ the boughs. 
With dark and alter’d eye. 

And when the lady past again. 

The brook its glad song kept ; 

But, leaning on its wild flower bank, 

The little maiden wept, 

Marian was still a child in years, 

Though not a child in thought \ 


94 


THE LADY MARIAN. 


She paused, and with her low soft voice, 
The cause for sorrow sought. 

It was for envy Edith wept, 

And this she shamed to say ; 

And it was long e’er Marian learnt 
Why tears had found their way. 

At last she rather guess’d than learnt. 
And with a graver tone 
She said, Oh rather thank thy God, 
My lot is not thine own. 

“ How would my weary feet rejoice 
Like thine to w^alk and run 
Over the soft and fragrant grass. 
Beneath yon cheerful sun. 

“ And yet I trust to God’s good will 
My spirit is resign’d ; 

Though sore my sickness, it is borne 
At least wnth patient mind. 

Though noble be my father’s name. 
And vast my father’s wealth; 

He would give all, could he but give 
His only child thy health ! 

Ah, judge not by the outside show 
Of this world, vain and frail — ” 

Still wept the child ; but now she wept 
To watch a cheek so pale. 


THE LADY MARIAN. 


The lady Marian’s voice grew faint, 

Her hour of strength was o’er ; 

She whisper'd, “ Come to-morrow morn.. 
And I will tell thee more.” 

Next morning Edith sought the hall ; — 
They shew’d her Marian laid 

Upon a couch where many a year 
That gentle child had pray’d. 

And dark and hollow were her eyes, 

Yet tenderly the w^hile 

Play’d o’er her thin white cheek and lip 
A sweet and patient smile. 

The shadow of the grave was nigh, 

But to her face was given 

A holy light from that far home 

Where she was hasteningh — eaven. 

It was her latest taslc on earth. 

That work of faith and love ; 

She taught that village child to raise 
Her youthful heart above. 

She gave her sweet and humble thought? 
That make tlieir own content ; 

And hopes that are the gift of heaven. 
When heavenward the’re bent. 

And many wept above the tomb 
That over Marian closed ; 

When in the bosom of her God 
The weary soul reposed. 


90 


THE LADY MARIAN. 


None wept with tenderer tears than she 
Who such vain tears had shed ; 

But holy was the weeping given 
To the beloved dead. 

Throughout a long and happy life 
That peasant maiden kept 
The lesson of that blessed hour 
When by the brook she wept. 


97 


THE PRISONER. 


“ Now come and see the linnet that I have caught to-day. 

Its wicker cage is fastened, he cannot fly away. 

All the morning I’ve been watching the twigs I lim’d last ni ght 
At last he perch’d upon them — he took no further flight, 

I wish he would be quiet, and sit him down and sing — 

You cannot see the feathers upon his dark brown wing.” 

He was her younger brother— she laid aside her book — 

His sister with her pale soft cheek, and sweet and serious look — 
“ Alas,” she cried, “ pour prisoner, now, Henry, set him free, 

His terror and his struggles I cannot bear to see.” 

But the eager boy stood silent, and with a darken’d brow, 

Sueh pains as he had taken, he could not lose them now. 

“ Poor bird ! see how he flutters ! and many a broken plume 
Lies scatter’d in the struggle, around his narrow room. 

His wings will soon be weary, and he will pine and die 
For love of the green forest, and of the clear blue sky. 

We read of giants, Henry, in those old books of ours, 

Would you like to be a captive within their gloomy towers ? 

“You said in our old ash-tree a bird had built its nest ; 
Perhaps this very linnet has there its place of rest. 

Now who will keep his little ones when night begins to fall ? 
They have no other shelter, and they will perish all. 

There’ll be no more sweet singing within that lonely grove ; 
Now, Henry, free your prisoner, I pray you, for my love. 


I 


98 


THE PRISONER. 


“ Our father is a soldier, and in some distant war 
He too might be a prisoner in foreign lands afar.” 

Her dark eyes filled with tear-drops, and she could say no more — 
But Henry had already unbarr’d the wicker door. 

He threw the window open, and placed the cage below. 

And to the ash-tree coppice he watch’d the linnet go. 

That evening when the sunset flung around its rosy light, 

And the air was sweet with summer, and the many flowers were bright 
They took their walk together, and as they past along. 

They heard from that old ash-tree the linnet’s pleasant song. 

It was like a sweet thanksgiving; and Henry, thus spoke he, 

“ How glad I am, my sister, I set the linnet free.” 


THE 

HISTORY OF MABEL DACRE’S 


FIRST LESSONS. 





4V,«/‘ 'I-..-': 

rtiii’ 


a'jliOAd JJUTAM 


.awi-.!:'’!.! TgJTl'l 


THE 


HISTORY OF MABEL DACRE’S 
FIRST LESSONS. 

‘‘ Good-bye, my little Mabel ; be a good child, and 
a comfort to your poor old grandfather !” So say- 
ing, Mr. Dacre put back the thick brown curls, 
which, to-day, a most unusual circumstance, hung 
over her face ; and kissed her eyes, which were clos- 
ed, for Mabel had resolved not to cry ; still the long, 
dark lashes were moist with the tears they re- 
pressed. 

Mabel was lifted, in silence, into the carriage, 
when, instantly jumping out again, she ran to her 
grandfather and almost sobbed, though the childish 
voice was steadied with a resolution which would 
have done honour to nineteen, instead of nine. “ My 
dear grandfather, I did not say good-bye ; I will do 
every thing I am told — I will be so very, very good!” 
and our little heroine ran back eagerly, to the car- 
riage. 

Mabel Dacre was an orphan, but utterly unsad- 

i2 


102 


MABEL DACllE’S 


dened by the memories which make the sorrow of an 
orphan. The darling and delight of her grandfather, 
she had never known a grief which had not been 
shared — a care which had not been soothed. Her 
whole life had been spent in the country, and her 
cheek was as red as the roses that had grown up with 
her, and her step as light as the wind ; and, to say 
the truth, nearly as unchecked. Little, affectionate, 
kind-hearted thing ! having her own way was not so 
bad for her as it usually is — still it was bad enough. 
The warm feelings, uncontrolled, had degenerated in- 
to passionate ones ; the lively temper, uncurbed, was 
grown wayward and violent; the mind, uncultivated, 
became idle and vacant; and, at the age of nine, 
Mabel Dacre was headstrong, rude, ignorant, and 
awkward ; in short, running as wild as any neglect- 
ed shrub in the garden. Day after day was spent in 
scampering over the grounds, her only companion a 
white greyhound as wilful as herself. Companions she 
had few ; far from neighbours of their own station, 
they lived at a distance ; and the children of the 
peasantry shrank from one whom extreme indulgence 
had, as extreme indulgence always does, rendered 
selfish and overbearing, Mabel saw she w'as disliked, 
and also felt her own deficiencies ; for, only last 
Christmas, she had been taught her first lesson, in 
mortification. Now, bitter, but useful, mortification 
is the stepping-stone to knowledge, even in a child. 

Mr. Dacre had a daughter, Mrs. Harcourt, who to- 
gether with a fine family, lived at a distance ; but last 


FIRST LESSONS. 


103 


Christmas she and her four daughters had volunteered 
Mr. Dacre a visit. Mabel had been impatient for 
the arrival of her cousins, to a degree that had put a 
stop to either sleeping, eating, playing, or, indeed, any 
faculty but talking: she would do this, that, and 
the other (to use a favourite phrase of her nurse’s,) 
when her cousins arrived. Nay, her generosity had 
arrived, in imagination, even to letting them have her 
pony — a little, rough, wild animal, which had once or 
twice nearly broken her neck, but was, nevertheless, 
a prodigious favourite. The day arrived — she was 
awake long before, and up as soon as, it was light, 
though she had been duly informed it was impossible 
they could arrive before evening. 

Expectation makes a long day. Her poor old grand- 
father was worried almost out of his life, and quite 
out of his arm chair. First she thought dinner never 
would be ready, which, when it came, she w^as too 
impatient to eat. Tea was expected and passed in 
precisely the same manner ; and, as the evening 
closed in, her impatience was quite unbearable. At 
last, to put a stop to the incessant opening and shut- 
ting the door, and the still more incessant questioning, 
one of the servants gave her some chesnuts to roast, 
and Mabel drew her stool to the fire. 

A soft drizzling mist prevented the carriage from 
being heard as it drove up the avenue, and the bustle 
in the hall first ayinounced the arrival of the visitors. 
Mabel threw her stool down, and her chesnuts into 
the fire, and flew to welcome them. A most noisy 


104 


MABEL DACRE’s 


welcome it was. Mr. Dacre thought to himself. 

Five children ! Why the old house will be about 
our ears.’’ 

“ What is the matter said the clear cold voice of 
Mrs. Harcourt, as Mabel threw her arms round her 
second cousin’s neck, and dragged her forward with 
an energetic hospitality worthy the feudal times. 
Miss Harriet was disengaged from her cousin’s em- 
brace, and Mabel shrunk back with a feeling of sur. 
prise, if not of fear. 

Mrs. Harcourt proceeded towards the dinning- 
room, w'here her father was sitting, unable to move 
with the gout, followed, in the quietest manner possi- 
ble, by her daughters. She approached Mr. Dacre, 
regretted that there should be such a draw-back, as 
the gout, to the happiness of their meeting, observed 
he looked well in the face, and requested permission 
to present the young ladies. Each severaly stepped 
up to their grandfather, said they were glad to see him, 
and presented their cheek to be kissed ; princesses 
could not have done it with more courtesy or more 
coldness. Mrs. Harcourt then asked for her niece, 
and Mabel, for the first time in her life, felt reluctant 
to be noticed ; she was kissed by her aunt, after- 
wards by her cousins ; and each young lady then took 
a chair, where they set upright and silent, as if they 
had been images of good behaviour. 

“ As the night is so very cold, you may come a 
little nearer the fire,” said their mother. 

The four moved their chairs foward at once, and 


first lessons. 


105 


then resumed their silence and stillness. Mabel, al- 
most unconsciously, pushed back her stool which was 
drawn close to the fender. Mrs. Harcourt talked to 
her father, and the young ladies looked at each other, 
and at the stranger, slightingly enough. Mabel felt 
rather than saw, that the looks had more of contempt 
than it was quite agreeable to supposq directed to 
herself. She glanced at them from time to time, 
when she thought herself unobserved : the Misses 
Harcourt seemed beings of another nature ; and na- 
turally enough, exaggerating their advantages, found 
her self-estimate greatly lowered in the contrast. She 
felt a secret consciousness of being ridiculous — a fear 
singularly prompt to enter a childish mind ; and, 
moreover, she was disappointed, though she knew not 
well how. With what joy did she hear supper an- 
nounced ! — and hastily assuming a seat, began to 
heap her cousin’s plates with every delicacy in her 
reach. Faint “ No thank you’s” rewarded her trou- 
ble, when Mrs. Harcourt said, in her chilly, but dic- 
tatorial, manner, “ Do you allow Miss Dacre to eat 
all this pastry ? I never allow my daughters to touch 
any thing so unwholesome !” And Mabel saw, with 
dismay, her cousins sup upon a roast apple, a piece 
of bread and a glass of plain water. 

Nine o’clock struck. “ Young ladies, you will bid 
your grandfather good night.” 

“ Mabel, love,” said Mr. Dacre, “ show your cousins 
their room.” 

“ I thank you,” interposed their mother, “ but the 


106 MABEL DACRE’S 

Misses Harcourts’ maid is in attendance.” The 
young strangers courtesied and withdrew. 

It must be owned Mabel had been accustomed to 
loiter at her grandfather’s knee, nay, even to sip out 
of his old-fashioned cut-glass goblet of wine and water, 
but to-night she disappeared as quietly and even more 
silently than her cousins. She left the room wdth an 
intention of visiting them, but paused from sheer timi- 
dity as she reached the door. While hesitating, she 
heard Miss Harriet’s voice in a much louder key than 
was used down stairs : 

^‘Well, did you ever see such an uncouth creature 
as our new cousin — dressed such a figure ! Why 
she’s a complete Hottentot !” 

Mabel withdrew indignantly to her bed, and there 
fairly cried herself to sleep. Not, however, till she 
had reflected a full hour touching what “ a Hotten- 
tot” could possibly be. “ Give me my darkest frock,” 
said Mabel to the old servant who dressed her. She 
had already contrasted her appearance with that of 
her guests, and, in her mind’s eye, saw herself in — 
alas, for poor Mabel’s taste ! a frock of brocaded silk, 
where each large flower covered half a breadth; it 
had been a gown of her grandmother’s, its gay co- 
lours had marvellously attracted her childish admira- 
tion, and she had never rested till a best frock had 
been made from its ample folds. Besides the hues of 
the rainbow in her garb, she had also decorated her- 
self with divers strings of coloured beads and bugles, 
twisted about her neck and arms which eagerness 


FIRST LESSONS. 


107 


and cold had dyed a double red. Moreover, she con- 
templated her curled head (her hair curled naturally) 
with no sort of satisfaction. She recalled the strangers 
dressed in dark green merino frocks, up to the throat 
and down to the wrist ; the gloves, which were al- 
most part of the hands they covered ; the neat black 
slipper. Mabel thought to herself ; mine were 
down at heel;” and then their heads, the youngest 
had the hair simply parted back ; in the second it was 
allowed to curl in the neck ; the third had it also 
curled in the front, while Miss Harcourt, the eldest, 
had arrived at the dignity (and an epoch it is in a 
young lady’s life) of having her hair turned up behind, 
and a comb. “ She is hardly three years older than 
I am,” thought Mabel. 

Mabel’s step was always light, and her voice al- 
ways soft, when she tripped into her grandfather’s 
dressing-room to make her daily enquiries. To-day, 
her manner was more than usually subdued. 

“ I expect my little girl,” said Mr. Dacre, “ will 
learn a great deal from her cousins. Mrs. Harcourt, 
my daughter, tells me they are uncommonly forward 
in their education.” 

•‘Pray,” said our herione, “do tell me what is 
meant by a Hottentot.” 

They are a peculiarly hideous and brutal race of 
savages in Africa.” 

Poor Mabel asked no farther questions. Mrs. Har- 
court now arrived to breakfast with her father. The 
young ladies had taken their’s an hour before, but 


lOS 


M^BEL D acre’s 


just came in to wish Mr. Dacre good morning, and 
then departed. Mabel looked after them, and felt as 
if she had no right to her usual place. Is it possi- 
ble,” exclaimed Mrs. Harcourt, that you suffer 
Miss Dacre to have chocolate for breakfast ? It is 
what I would not allow one of my own children to 
touch.” To be called, Miss Dacre,” to be eating 
what her visiters would not be allowed to partake ! — 
She could not swallow another spoonful. Chocolate 
was no indulgence to her, at all events, to-day. Mrs. 
Harcourt, after breakfast, proposed her niece should 
accompany her to what was to be the school-room. 
‘‘ During Miss Dormer’s holidays, I take the office of 
governess on myself.” How endless the morning seem- 
ed to Mabel ! — how wearisome the various catechisms 
out of which they recited dates, names, &c, in the 
driest and the most didactic order ! And as for the 
harp, which the eldest Miss Harcourt practised for 
two hours, Mabel wondered how she had ever liked 
music. The hours of study were succeeded by those 
of relaxation, and the four sisters proceeded to walk 
up and down the terrace in the sun ; beyond this their 
young hostess could not allure them. All her efforts 
for their entertainment were equally fruitless : they 
screamed when her greyhound came bounding to- 
wards them ; shuddered with half real, half affected, 
horror, when she proposed a ride on her pony ; and, 
when she challenged her youngest cousin to a race, 
she was struck dumb with their answer — that such 
very violent exercise was only fit for boys. 


FIRST LESSOi\S. 


109 


But the climax of all was when Miss Elizabeth, the 
eldest, who drew, admired the bright red berries of a 
bunch of holly, and lamented that it was out of her 
reach. Immediately Mabel, with much good nature, 
and a little of the pride of usefulness, began scramb- 
ling up the tree, quite regardless of the prickly leaves, 
and succeeded in obtaining the desired branch ; but, 
by the time she began her descent, the cries and eja- 
culations of the Misses Harcourt had brought their 
mother to the window, and, from the window to the 
terrace itself, Mabel swung by a bough to the ground, 
and found herself in the hwful presence of her aunt* 
Blushing even deeper than the crimson, which exer- 
tion had brought into her face, Mabel hesitatingly of- 
fered Elizabeth the stalk with its scarlet berries ; Mrs. 
Harcourt, however, repulsed the proffered gift. “ I 
can permit no daughter of mine to take what has been 
procured in so disgraceful a manner. Young ladies, 
you will return with me to the house.” Poor Mabel 
was left standing by herself, equally dismayed and dis- 
consolate, on the terrace. But the mortifications of 
the ensuing day were even more acute. It was her 
grandfather^s birth-day, and each of the Misses Har- 
court had some pretty present of their own work to 
offer him . The eldest brought a drawing — her latest 
and best performance ; the second had netted him a 
brown silk purse ; the third had embroidered a velvet 
case for his spectacles ; and the youngest had hemm- 
ed a silk handkerchief, and neatly marked it with his 
name. And poor Mabel had nothing to give. Her 


no 


MABEL DACRE’s 


little heart swelled even to bursting; and she stole out 
of the room to hide her tears, that came thick and 
fast. 

Come back, my little girl,” said her too indulgent 
grandfather. 

“Excuse me,” said Mrs. Hascourt, “ young ladies, 
you may leave the room.’’ The Misses Harcourt 
retired. 

“ A very bad sign ; Miss Dacre’s crying shows so 
much envy.” 

Mr. Dacre did not quite agree with his daughter, 
but as he had never contradicted her as a child, it was 
not very likely he should do so now. 

“ You are quite ruining poor Frederick’s child : she 
is quite a little Hottentot !” 

“ Oh !” thought Mr. Dacre, “ I now understand 
poor Mabel’s question !” It is unnecessary to dwell 
quite as long as Mrs. Harcourt did upon Mabel’s de- 
ficiences ; but the result of the conversation was that 
with which our narrative commences, viz Mabel’s 
going to school. 

Drearily did the weeks pass with her grandfather, 
his existence suddenly missed its interest, and, with 
all her faults, Mabel was kind-hearted and most affec- 
tionate. In the meantime his grand-daughter found 
the novelty of her situation, at the Misses Smythes’, 
not so pleasant as novelties generally are. 

The silence, the stillness, the order, to say nothing 
of the lessons, were very dreadful in Mabel’s eyes. 
Then she had the mortification of being behind-hand 


FIRST LESSONS. 


Ill 


With the very youngest of her companions. She had 
no available knowledge. True, her habit of reading 
aloud to her grandfather had given her a stock of in- 
formation really uncommon at her age ; but it was 
very miscellaneous, and not at all useful as regarded 
her present course of study. The rest of the girls, 
finding that at the age of ten she could do nothing 
more than read and write, immediately set her down 
for a dunce, and a new feeling, that of timidity, inter- 
fered sadly with her progress — for Mabel was really 
a quick child. 

All beginings are very troublesome things, and 
such she found them. But all the early cares of edu- 
cation were nothing compared to her other sorrows. 
For the first time in her life she found herself utterly 
alone, an object neither of importance nor affection. 

Shy, keenly alive to ridicule, and unaccustomed to 
girls of her own age, she experienced insuperable dif- 
ficulties in the way of getting acquainted with her 
school fellows ; they were to her strangers, if not 
enemies. The trees in the garden seemed her only 
friends ; a dwarf oak was an especial favourite — it 
reminded her of one at the hall. Her rural tastes at 
last led her into a great error. The gardener, a good- 
natured old man, whose heart inclined to a young 
lady whose interest in a patch of mustard and cress 
seemed almost as great as his own, one unlucky morn- 
ing made her a present of a. wicker cage containing a 
young owl, and a little frightful creature it was, to 
be sure. Still, had it been the celebrated queen bird 


112 


MABEL DACRE’s 


of the fairy tales, it could not have been more highly 
valued. 

In the first place, there was a mystery about keep- 
ing it, and we all know mysteries are very fascinating 
things. Moreover, it was something to love, and 
Mabel soon loved it very dearly. But, alas ! the ne- 
cessary feeding of an evening involved a terrible 
breach of school discipline. Every night, after the 
teachers had carried away the lights from the young 
ladies’ room, Mabel used to slip out of her bed, steal 
down to the garden, and feed the owl. For nearly a 
week no suspicion was excited, but, one bright moon- 
light night, Miss Smythe, who had forgotten some or- 
der to the gardener, walked herself down to his cot- 
tage, which stood at the further extremity of the gar- 
den. As she returned, her attention was attracted to 
a figure in white, gliding among the trees. 

‘‘ Dear, dear ! What mischief is going on now !’’ ex- 
claimed Miss Smythe, whom long experience had made 
sage. In another minute she was at the culprit’s side. 
“ Gracious goodness ! she will catch her death of cold. 
Miss Dacre, you tiresome child, come with me into 
the house this minute !” In silence Miss Dacre obey- 
ed, and in silence was put to bed again, and Miss 
Smythe departed with an assurance that the oflence 
would be duly visited with punishment the next day. 
Every variety of punishment visited Mabel’s sleep 
that night. The next day she passed in solitary con- 
finement. 

Not so much,” said Miss Smythe, « for keeping 


FIRST LESSONS. 


113 


the bird — that I might have permitted — but for the de- 
ception of the concealment.” It made MabePs sor- 
rows more acute to know herself how improperly she 
had acted. The day after she was seriously ill with a 
sore throat, and cough, and had to get well on the 
cold comfort that it was entirely her own fault. Grad- 
ually, how^ever, she was becoming more popular with 
her schooll-fellows. The first fortnight had taught 
the useful lesson that she was of no consequence, the 
second brought with it the want of friends, and the 
third, the wish to acquire them. She soon saw that 
she must put herself out of the way for the sake of 
others, and that kindness must be reciprocal : now, 
she was not naturally selfish, and its acquired habit 
soon wore off. From one extreme she ran into ano- 
ther, and the desire of popularity became an absolute 
passion. Her injudicious desire of obliging, right or 
wrong, led her into continual scrapes. The last was 
the worst. There was an old woman who was al- 
lowed, once a week, to supply the school with cakes, 
fruit, &c. ; but, besides this regular commerce, un- 
happily a good deal of smuggling went on, and divers 
sweet things entered the house unknown to the Misses 
Smythes. One evening, MabePs ingenuity had been 
exerted in procuring a cherry pie, for which her purse 
also had paid. As soon as the teachers had gone their 
usual rounds, and descended to supper, the pupils pre- 
pared to eat their pie, for which the long summer 
evening afforded ample light: the road to the mouth 
is a very obvious one. Suddenly a staid and well- 
k2 


114 


MABEL DACRE’s 


known step was heard on the stairs. It was that of 
the younger Miss Smythe, “ What shall we do with 
the pie V* 

“ Put it on the top of the bed,’* said one of the girls. 
Mabel jumped up, placed it rapidly on the bed head, 
and when Miss Smythe entered, all was seeming sleep 
and quiet. Her unexpected visit turned out to be on^ 
of great length : a press stood in the room, and its 
whole contents that night were put to rights. All 
were too sleepy when their governess departed to 
even think of the pie. 

The next morning, an exclamation of horror from 
Mabel awoke all the girls. The pie, turned upside 
down in the scuffle, had let all its juice run through on 
the bed — the pretty French bed, white as snow, on 
which the Misses Smythes so prided themselves — the 
furniture was utterly spoiled. In the midst of their 
dismay, and their unkindly reproaches to Mabel, who 
was called “ such a stupid awkward thing,” one of 
the teachers entered. The alarm was given, and 
Miss Smythe’s anger at its height. The next day, 
when Mr. Dacre called to take Mabel home for the 
holidays, he was told that his grandaughter was quite 
incorrigible, and really required severer discipline 
than was practised at the Misses Smythes* establish- 
ment. Mabel came there weeping, and so she left iU 
But her sorrow yet admitted of augmentation. 

Mrs. Harcourt and daughters were coming to the 
hall. They arrived fully aware of why their cousin 
had left the Misses Smythes. The next morning,. 


FIRST LESSONS. 


115 


Mrs. Harcourt said, in her most ungracious manner, 

•■‘ Young ladies, I permit you still to offer Miss Dacre 
the presents you have brought her, though I fear, 
from what I hear, they will be of little use.” It must 
be owned, the presents themselves were unreasonable 
enough, if six months at school were held sufficient 
to ensure their being a benefit. The eldest gave her 
a piece of music, scientific enough to have puzzled 
an advanced performer ; the second gave her a box 
of colours (for drawing Mabel had not the least taste;) 
the third, a volume of erudite patterns for lace, bead, 
and other work ; and the youngest presented her with 
an elegantly bound French treatise on Botany, not a 
word of which she could read, Alas, poor Mabel! 
Two days (but they were very long ones) only Mrs 
Harcourt stay. After her departure it was gradually • 
discovered that, softened and subdued, Mabel was 
much improved by her having been at school. But 
a second absence from home was preparing for her. 
Mrs. Harcourt staid two days again on her way home. 
She had heard of a first-rate school ; Mabef s defici- 
encies were sedulously brought forward; and Mr. 
Dacre again convinced of the propriety of a remedy. 

This time Mrs. Harcourt herself consigned her to 
the care of Mrs. Weston, certainly with a very un- 
flattered character. Depressed at parting with her 
grandfather, mortified by her aunt, and remembering 
the ill success of her first trial, Mabel sat and cried 
in the window seat. The first week was very misera- 
ble. Embarrassed by so many strangers, hopeless 


HO 


MABEL DAORE’s 


with observing so much of accomplishment, Mabel 
was in a state of depression that any person less in 
the habit of making allowance than Mrs. Weston 
W'ould have taken for absolute sullenness. 

One morning, while gazing sorrowfully on the pa- 
rapet, and thinking how melancholy a window was 
that only looked to the tops of houses, she observed 
something dark on the wall. She opened the case- 
ment, and saw that it was a robin, lying apparently 
dead, A robin ! it was like an old friend : forgetting 
all the trouble of which her last bird had been the 
cause, Mabel caught it up and found that it still show- 
ed faint signs of life. She wrapped it up in a hand- 
kerchief, and, putting it in her work-basket, hurried 
down stairs, with the intention of trying to relieve it 
* with warm milk at breakfast. Previous to this there 
were some lessons to be said ; and, while they were 
in progress, the robin, re-animated by the warmth, 
escaped from the basket. No slight confusion ensued, 
and, in her hurry to secure the captive, which only 
fluttered very faintly, Mabel threw down a form. 
Of course an enquiry was made as to what caused 
the noise, and our herione was brought, bird in hand, 
to Mrs. Weston. To Mabel’s extreme surprise, she 
met with no reprimand, but praise for her humanity, 
and Mrs. Weston herself helped to revive the poor 
bird. It was a tame one, and Mabd’s delight and 
gratitude were unbounded on being permitted to 
keep it. 

The system of kindness thus begun was most ra- 


FIRST LESSONS. 


117 


pidly pursued ; our heroine now descarded from her 
mind the belief that it was quite in vain for her to 
attempt to do any thing ; she found that inclination and 
ability went hand in hand. Mrs. Weston easily saw 
that Mabel Dacre had been at once over indulged, 
and yet over blamed ; and that, while there were in 
her character the elements of much good, they were 
yet of a kind that were the soonest turned to evil. 
She was therefore repressed, but not discouraged ; 
and industry gradually became an enjoyment, and or- 
der a habit. 

But, at the end of the first six months, a heavy dis- 
appointment awaited her. Mr. Dacre had written 
to say he would fetch her the following week ; but, 
alas! that week only brought a letter from Mrs. Har- 
court, saying that her father had been very ill, and 
that she had prevailed on him to accompany the 
family to Bath. Miss Dacre would, therefore, re- 
main at school during the holidays. Poor Mabel ! 
Perhaps, however, this very untoward circumstance 
proved one of the most fortunate events in her life. 
Being the only young person left during the holidays 
under Mrs. Weston’s care, much attention was di- 
rected to a disposition that well repaid the cultiva- 
tion. Mabel was conversed with as a sensible and 
a responsible being, and her naturally affectionate 
temper called into action by the discovery that she 
was really liked for herself. School met again, and 
Mabel was among the most gentle and the most as- 
siduous. Christmas came at last, and with it her 


118 


MABEL DACRF/S 


grandfather. Mabel cried for joy as she threw her- 
self into his arms ; and Mr. Dacre could hardly be- 
lieve that the tall, elegant girl, who had prizes in 
every one of her studies to exhibit, could be the little, 
rude, ignorant Mabel. The pain of parting with Mrs. 
Weston was the only drawback to her content. It 
may be doubted whether Mrs. Harcourt was quite so 
delighted with Miss Dacre’s improvement ; and the 
accomplishments of her daughters were brought 
more sedulously forward than ever. Perhaps the 
secret why Mabel’s little stock were so much more 
efficient, in her grandfather’s eyes at least, w^as that 
her cousins’ were produced in display, and her’s from 
affection. 

Early lessons are invaluable ones,' and Mabel ne- 
ver forgot her first experiences. Out of mortification 
grew the desire of improvement ; and the desire of 
amendment soon produced its effect. All the better 
qualities of her nature were now called into action 
by Mr. Weston’s judicious kindness. Frank, kind, 
and affectionate, at sixteen — when Mabel Dacre was 
the constant comfort and companion of her grand- 
father — feeling within herself at once the desire and 
capability of excellence ; feeling, too, all the happi- 
ness both to itself and others which a well regulated 
disposition and a cultivated mind is capable of dif- 
fusing — Mabel often said, laughing, I used to call 
Mrs. Ilarcourt my evil, but I ought to have called 
her my good, genius.” 


119 


THE DEAD ROBIN. 


“ It is dead — it is dead — it will wake no more 
With the earliest light, as it wak’d before — 

And singing, as if it were glad to wake. 

And wanted our longer sleep to break ; 

We found it a little unfledg’d thing. 

With no plume to smooth and no voice to sing; 
The father and mother both were gone. 

And the callow nurseling left alone. 

“For a wind, as fierce as those from the sea, 
Had broken the boughs of the apple tree : 

The scattered leaves lay thick on the ground. 

And among them the nest and the bird we found 
We warm’d it, and fed it, and made it a nest 
Of Indian cotton, and watch’d its rest; 

Its feathers grew soft, and its wings grew strong, 
And happy it seemed as the day was long. 

“Do you remember its large dark eye. 

How it brightened, when one of us came nigh ? 
How it would stretch its throat and sing. 

And beat the osier cage with its wing. 

Till we let it forth, and it perched on our hand— * 
It needed not hood, nor silken band. 

Like the falcons we read of, in days gone by. 
Linked to the wrist lest away they should fly. 


120 


THE DEAD ROBIN. 


“ But our bird knew not of the free blue air, 

He had lived in his cage, and his home was there 
No flight had he in the green wood flown — 

He pined not for freedom he never had known ! 

If he had lived amid leaf and bough 
It had been cruel to fetter him now ; 

For I have seen a poor bird die. 

And all for love of his native sky. 

“ But our’s would come to our cup and sip. 
And peck the sugar away from our lip — 

Would sit on our shoulder and sing, then creep 
And nestle in our hands to sleep : 

There is the water, and there is the seed — 

Its cage hung round with the green chickweed ; 
But the food is untouched — the song is unheard — 
Cold and stiff lies our beautiful bird.” 


121 


THE SOLDIER’S HOME. 

Thus spoke the aged wanderer, 

A kind old man was he, 

Smoothing the fair child’s golden hair 
Who sat upon his knee : — 

‘‘’Tis now some fifteen years, or more. 
Since to your town I came : 

And, though a stranger, made my home 
Where no one knew my name. 

“ I did not seek your pleasant woods, 
Where the green linnets sing — • 

Nor yet your meadows, for the sake 
Of any living thing. 

For fairer is the little town. 

And brighter is the tide, 

And pleasanter the woods that hang 
My native river’s side. 

“ Or such, at least, they seemed to me — 
I spent my boyhood there ; 

And memory, in looking back. 

Makes every thing more fair. 

But half a century has past 
Since last I saw their face : 

God hath appointed me, at length. 
Another resting-place 

L 


122 


THE soldier’s HOME. 


“ I have gone east — I have gone west : 

I served in that brave band 
Which fought beneath the pyramids, 

In Egypt’s ancient land. 

I saw the Nile swell o’er its banks 
And bury all around ; 

And when it ebbed, the fertile land 
Was like fair garden ground.* 

I saw the golden Ganges, next. 

No meadow is so green 
As the bright fields of verdant rice 
Beside its waters seen. 

“ There grows the mournful peepul tree, f 
Whose boughs are scattered o’er 
The door-way of the warrior’s house, 
When he returns no more. 

“ I followed where our colours led, 

In many a hard-won day ; 

From ocean to the Pyrenees, 

Old England fought her way. 


*Not a traveller but alludes to the beautiful appearance 
of the country when the annual overflowing of the Nile, 
in Egypt, has subsided. Many use the very expression in 
the text, that it is “ like a fair garden.” 

t It is a custom with some of the Hindoo tribes to strew 
branches of the peepul tree before the door when the chief 
of the house has fallen in battle. 


THE soldier’s HOME. 


123 


I had a youngtcompanion then— 

My own, my only child !-^ 

The darkest watch, the longed march, 
His laugh and song beguil’d. 

** He was as cheerful as the lark 
That singeth in the sky; 

His comrades gladdened on their way, 
Whene’er his step drew nigh. 

But he was wounded, and was sent 
To join a homeward band : 

Thank God, he drew his latest breath 
Within his native land, 

I shared in all our victories, 

But sad they were to me; 

I only saw the one pale face 
That was beyond the sea. 

“ Peace came at last, and I was sent, 
With many more, to roam ; 

There were glad partings then, for most 
Had some accustomed home. 

I took my medal, and with that 
I crost the salt sea wave ; 

Others might seek their native vales, 

I only sought a grave. 

I knew that, on his homeward march 
My gallant boy had died ; 

I knew that he had found a grave 
By yonder river’s side. 


124 


f . . 

THE .soldier’s HOMEi 

^ ■ 

“ The summer sun-set, soft and warm, 
Seemed as it-hiestVhe sT^ep 
Of that low grave, which held my child. 
O’er which I longed to weep. 

The aged yew-trees’ sweeping boughs 
A solemn shadow spread ; . 

And many a growth of early flowers 
. Their soothing fragrance shed. 

“ But there were weeds upon his grave : 

None watch’d the stranger’s tomb, ^ 
And bade, amid its long green grass. 

The spring’s sweet children bloom. 

“ You know the spot — our old church yard 
Has no such grave beside ; 

The primrose and the violet 
There blossom in their pride. 

“ It is my only task on earth — 

It is my only joy. 

To keep, throughout the seasons fair. 

The green sod of my boy. 

Nor kin nor kindness have I lacked. 

All here have been my friends ; 

And, with a blessing at its close. 

My lengthened wayfare ends. 

And now my little Edward knows 
The cause why here I dwell ; 

And how I trust to have my grave 
By his I love so well.” 


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THE INDIAN ISLAND. 



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THE INDIAN ISLAND. 


Oh, many are the beauteous isles, 

Unknown to human eye, 

That, sleeping 'mid the ocean smiles, 

In happy silence lie ! 

The ship may pass them in the night. 

Nor sailors know what a lovely sight. 

Is resting on the main.” 

The Isle of Palms. 

Do not tell me so ! I cannot send my children 
from me ; they are the only links between me and 
the past, and the only ties that bind me to the future. 
Care and skill” — but here Mr. Selwyn’s voice became 
inaudible Dr. Irvine, the physician to whom he was 
speaking, gave him no answer, but put back a large 
curtain that interrupted the view of the lawn, which 
stretched away from the colonnade that extended 
round the houge. The sun was scarcely risen, and 
the fresh air of the morning stirred the bright branches 
of the many blooming and odoriferious shrubs around ; 
the grass glistening with dew, gigantic flowers bright 
with the sunshine on their rich hues, and all open as 
if rejoicing in the morning, many icoloured birds flit- 


THE INDIAJf ISLAND. 


i2a 

ting among the leaves— all these made a scene which 
might have gladdened the heart of the* mourner, and 
raised to their highest pitch the buoyant spirits of 
youth ; and yet, in the midst of the lawn, beneath a 
young banana tree, were two children, evidently quite 
unexhilarated by the freshness of the air or the cheer- 
fulness of the morning. The one was a boy of 
about nine years of age. He was seated on a bough 
of the tree which had been trained artificially along 
the ground. He had been reading, but the book lay 
on the grass, for his arm supported the head of a 
little creature about three years old who was leaning 
against him, half in affection, half for support. There 
was something very striking, and yet sad, in the ap- 
pearance of these children, they were singularly hand- 
some and singularly alike : but the cheek might have 
been marble, it was so utterly devoid of colour, and 
the faint crimson of the lip was parched and feverish, 
and the pale face was more striking from the pro- 
fusion of thick black hair and the large dark and me- 
lancholy looking eyes. The boy seemed naturally 
grave and quiet : but the fairy figure and dimpled 
mouth of the little girl were at variance with her 
present listless attitude. I see it — I see,” said Mr. 
Selwyn, ‘‘ they are pining away for a healthier air. 
In two years I can retire to England : but now, amid 
the many difficulties that surround us, I cannot in 
honour resign my situation.” 

“ But,” returned Dr. Irvine, « you have friends in 
England : and they are still too young to need that 


THE INDIAN ISLAND. 


129 


watchful guidance which will be so important in a 
few years. I dare not deceive you : Marion will not 
live over another rainy season : Francis you might 
venture to retain with you.” 

‘‘ I will not part them ; I cannot bear that absence 
should weaken their now perfect affeotion : besides 
(and do not think this weak partiality,) I shall be 
happier for knowing that Francis is with his sister. 
In care and thoughtfulness he is far beyond his years, 
and till I myself can reach England, they shall not be 
parted.” 

Dr. Irvine hesitated for a moment : he had only 
performed one half of his painful task. Mr. Selwyn 
stood watching from the window the pallid counte- 
nance of his little girl, when his friendly adviser broke 
the silence by saying, “ Poor Marion herself is my 
best argument : but let me impress upon you the ne- 
cessity of prompt measures, though by your side, 
from this moment, you are really parted from them : 
Captain Cameron sails next week. Can your children 
be in better hands ? 

Next week !” exclaimed Mr. Selwyn, in a broken 
voice. 

Dr. Irvine shook hands wdth him in silence, and 
left him for the present. 

To all parents such a parting would have been a 
trial ; but to Mr. Selwyn it came with more than 
usual bitterness. Immersed in business, whose fatigue 
unfitted him for the exertion of society, shy, and re- 
served in habits, to him his own family was every 


130 


the INDIAN ISLAND. 


thing. His young wife had died a week after Marion’s 
birth, and he had attached himself entirely to his 
children. He saw in them the relics of the dearest 
love on earth, and felt that he had to be both father 
and mother. It was impossible not to be proud of 
the fine mind and generous temper of Francis; and 
it was equally impossible not to be enlivened by the 
gaiety of Marion. But he had for some time remark- 
ed that, unless stimulated by his presence to exertion, 
'Francis grew more and more silent, as if talking were 
a fatigue ; his garden was only cultivated at intervals, 
and his minic frigate remained unfinished. Every 
day, too, the music of Marion’s laugh grew more un- 
frequent in the house ; she loathed her food, and in- 
stead of the restless, dancing steps, that seemed never 
quiet but in sleep, she would creep to the knee of her 
father, and sit for hours with her languid head resting 
on his shoulder. Mr. Selwyn had long felt what Dr. 
Irvine now confirmed, and for him there was but the 
choice of parting with his children to England, or to 
the grave. Now, for months and months to come 
his hearth would be desolate, long solitary evenings, 
uncheered by the sweet companions now far away, 
no little hand eagerly put into his for his now solitary 
walk, and worse than all, strangers would be winning 
the affections and guiding the youthful hearts hitherto 
so entirely his own. 

Mr. Selwyn had married young and poor, and the 
early years of his married life had been embittered 
by struggles which it was his great hope that he 


THE INDIAN ISLAND. 131 

might spare his children. Gradually he had risen to 
the important situation he now held in Ceylon. 
Wealth he had accumulated; and, under Providence 
Francis could never know the same difficulties which 
had embittered so large a portion of his father’s life. 
But Mr. Selwyn had to learn that there are miseries 
beyond even those of poverty, and would have gladly 
given all, beyond 'a mere competence, of his noble 
fortune, to have accompanied his children to Eng- 
land. 

At length, and yet how soon ! — the day came for 
the sailing of the Warren Hastings. Marion, tired 
out with fatigue, was asleep, in her cabin with her 
nurse; but Frank still held his father’s hand, who 
lingered to the last upon deck. But the boat was in 
waiting, and Dr. Irvine gently but his arm through 
that of Mr. Selwyn, and drew him away. Once 
more he clasped his boy in his arms ; and Frank turn- 
ed to his father a pale face, but a tearless eye, and 
said, in a low, but tolerably steady, voice, “ You 
may trust me, father.” The splash of the oars was 
heard in the water, the boat rowed rapidly away ; 
but the effort the heroic boy had made to subdue his 
feeling was too much for his enervated frame, and he 
sank quite insensible on the shoulder of an old sailor 
who had approached to console him. 

The young voyagers had not been a week at sea 
before its good effects were apparent : both recover- 
ed their appetite, and Marion’s little feet seemed 
never weary : long before her brother’s shy temper 


132 


THE INDIAN ISLAND. 


would permit him to speak, she had made friends 
with every seaman on board. There are few boys 
but what are born with a love for a ship and a horse ; 
and, thanks to kindness of the old sailor we have men- 
tioned, Frank was soon initiated into every part of 
the vessel, and his steps became familiar with the 
most dangerous parts of the rigging. 

But no attraction, whether of amusement, or infor- 
mation, ever diverted his attention from his sister 
His eye seemed always upon her ; he would give up 
any employment to attend to her want or wish : he 
would spend hours amusing her with her box of ivory 
letters; and not an evening passed but her sweet 
voice might be heard repeating to her brother her 
simple prayer and hymn. Already Frank shewed 
a* naturally mechanical genius ; but even the carpen- 
ter’s chest and company never detained him long from 
Marion, and the great aim of his ingenuity was to 
construct some slight toy for her. They had now 
been on board four weeks ; and often did Frank wish 
his father could have seen the light step and bright 
eyes of the once pale and listless Marion. One eve- 
ning Frank came up from the cabin, where he had 
been soothing his sister, who was somewhat restless 
with the oppressive heat to sleep ; and took his usual 
post beside the old sailor, who, from the first, had 
made him an especial favourite. Nothing could be 
clearer than the atmosphere, and the sea was almost 
as bright and motionless as the sky. Not a single 
object broke the mighty stillness; no fish were visible 


THE INDIAN ISLAND. 


133 


in the clear waters, no birds in the clear air ; not 
another bark shared the ocean with their solitary- 
ship. No wind was striving, the sails hung loose and 
motionless, and the red flag drooped heavily from the 
mast. The sailors shared in the general tranquillity, 
and sat or stood round in silent groups ; the oppression 
of the air seemed also on their spirits. The old sea. 
man, to whom Frank had drawn, was leaning over 
the side of the vessel, gazing so intently on the dis- 
tance that his young companion’s approach was at 
first unobserved ; when, suddenly turning round, he 
said. “We shall have rough weather soon. Master 
Francis.” The boy looked on the shining elements 
around, as much as to ask where was the slightest 
sign of storm ? When the sailor, answering to his 
gaze, pointed out a small white cloud, or rather speck, 
which looked as if scarcely freighted with an April 
shower. 

Francis turned pale, for he thought of his young 
and helpless sister. “ Why, you wouldn’t be only a 
fair-weather sailor, would you?” and, turning round 
the old man began one of those tales of tempest met 
and baffled by naval skill and courage, which so de- 
lighted his youthful auditor. Nearly an hour elapsed, 
when the narator was called away to his duty in 
another part of the ship. 

The small white cloud had now spread like a 
white and gigantic veil over half the sky, and an un- 
equal and capricious wind was awakening the sails 
from their repose ; and by the time the dinner hour 

M 


i34 


THE INDIAN ISLAND. 


came, little order could be preserved among the 
plates and dishes, which were soon scattered by a 
sudden squall. 

Francis had been accustomed to employ the after- 
noon in teaching Marion her alphabet, and to spell 
various small words ; but to-day their studies were 
interrupted — neither could keep their footing a single 
moment and, by the captain’s directions, Marion 
was fastened in her cot, with a stout silk handker- 
chief round her waist, and the cot itself strongly 
lashed to the sides. It was a dismal time, for the 
waves now ran so high that the port holes were or- 
dered to be closed. Suddenly a deep and hollow 
sound rolled over the ship, and a faint flash gilmmer- 
ed through the darkness. That first peal of thunder 
was like a summons ; the wind rose up at once with 
frantic violence; peal followed peal, and flash follow- 
ed flash ; and the trampling of the hurried steps over- 
head told of the anxiety and exertion going on above. 
Frank never for a moment left his sister, who, though 
too young for fear at their actual danger, was terri- 
fied at the unusual darkness and noise. A number of 
the men now came below ; a sound of loosened chains 
was heard, and plunge after plunge into the waters. 
They had been forced to throw the guns over-boaid. 
Immediately came a tremulous crash, as of the falling 
of some heavy mass; the mast had been cut away. 
Frank now fancied that the vessel seemed to reel less, 
but appeared to be dashing on with frightful velocity. 
The trampling over head, too, abated, and the thun- 


TKE INDIAN ISLAND. 


135 


der ceased : it only made the fierce and howling sound 
of the wind more terrible. At this moment came the 
gleam of a dark lantern into their cabin ; it was the 
old seaman; but his face was ghastly pale, and his 
features looked rigid, as if he had suffered from long 
illness. Francis saw no hope in his countenance, and 
he asked no questions. 

‘‘You have had no food for some hours: I have 
brought to you, poor things, some biscuit and a slice 
of ham.” 

Marion laughed with delight at the sight of the bis- 
cuit, for she was very hungry. Poor F rank put away 
the offered food ; his heart was too full to eat, but he 
clasped the hand of the kind old man, who now turn- 
ed to go away ; but Marion cried to go with him. 

“ It dofes not matter he muttered ; “ as well above 
as here.’* 

He then took the child in his arms, and, Frank fol- 
lowing with the lantern, they groped their way to the 
deck. They had not been there five minutes before 
an awful shock told their worst had come to pass — 
they had struck upon a rock. A cry of “ boats \ 
boats !” now arose ; and the lanterns shewed hurry- 
ing, and yet despairing, groups thronging to the side. 

“ Come, Michael !” said two sailors, rushing past. 
The old man made no reply, but seated himself on a 
broken fragment of wood, and placed Marion on his 
knee. Frank immediately took his sister’s hand, and 
drew her towards himself. “ Michael, you must no^ 
stay with us, God bless you ; but go.” 


136 


THE INDIAN ISLAND. 


** Go ! Master Frank/’ said the sailor, “ I have d 
boy your age at home, and for his sake, I will stay 
with you. God would desert him in his need, if I de- 
serted you.” The glimmer of a lantern amid the 
thick darkness shewed that the last boat had pushed 
off. And you have stayed here to perish!” And, 
for the first time, Frank gave way to a bitter flood of 
tears. Michael put his arm kindly around him, and 
said, “Do you remember the holy words you were 
teaching your little sister the other morning ? ‘ Do 

unto others as you would they should do unto you 
“ Yes,” interrupted Marion, “ he taught me, too, a 
new hymn yesterday ; I will say it to you and she 
began to repeat one of Watt’s beautiful Hymns for 
Children. She did not quite know it through ; but 
the last two verses were singularly apposite to their 
situation ; 

“ There’s not a plant or flower below. 

But makes thy glories known ; 

And clouds arise, and tempests blow, 

By order from thy throne. 

Creatures (as numerous as they be) 

Are subject to thy care ; 

There’s not a place where we can flee. 

But God is present there. 

“ Our lives are in His hand, and it maybe His will 
even now to save us: somehow, the words of this in- 
nocent creature have put hope into my heart and 
the old sailor turned his head to the east, where a 
dim streak told of the coming day. All know how 


THE INDIAN ISLAND, 


137 


rapidly the light of morning floods an eastern heaven ; 
wave upon wave of fire kindled the ship, when Frank, 
who was looking in an opposite direction to his com- 
panion, clapped his hands, and, exclaimed joyfully, 
** Land ! Land !” About a quarter of a mile from the 
wreck extended a line of coast, whose waving palms 
might be distinctly seen. Michael gave one look, 
and sank on his knees to return thanks to Almighty 
God for their wonderful preservation. They could 
now see all the bearings of their situation : their ship 
was jammed in between two rocks, both now visible; 
the one was higher than the other, and to its raising 
the head of the vessel whereon they stood might be 
attributed their safety. 

“ And the boats !” exclaimed Frank. 

“ Perished ! No boat could have lived through the 
sea of last night,” replied his companion ; and both 
remained for a few minutes gazing on the vast ex- 
panse of air and water, which still bore traces of their 
late convulsion. The sea, heaved with a tremulous 
and unquiet motion, and the sky was covered with 
broken clouds. But there was no time for melan- 
choly meditation; the wind, which had been grad- 
ually veering round, was now blowing full to land, 
and they were obviously under the necessity of tak- 
ing advantage of its direction to reach the island with 
all possible speed. One rough gale w^ould drive to 
fragments the frail wreck, which yet, had they but 
kept by it, would have saved the lives of so many. 
A chest, with carpenters’ tools had been lashed upon 

M 2 


THE INDIAN ISLAND. 


138 

deck, and, of the planks and spars scattered round, 
they soon formed a slight raft. Great part of the 
ship was under water ; but in the captain’s cabin they 
found an ample supply of present necessaries. W rap- 
ping Marion in a boat cloak, they fastened her to a 
large chest in the midle of the raft. The wdnd was 
in their favour, steady and gentle and setting in 
directly to the shore. Their frail launch went steadily 
through the water, the low sandy beach was easily 
gained ; and, by ten o’clock, they had kindled a small 
fire, boiled some cocoa for breakfast, and Marion 
was asleep beneath the shadow of the knot of palm- 
trees which had first caught their attention, and un- 
der which it was their earliest task to raise a tent suf- 
ficient to shelter them from the night dews. 

They soon discovered that their place of refuge 
was a small island, apparently quite uninhabited, and 
with no sign of any species of animal ; but a com- 
plete aviary of the most brilliant-coloured birds. 
With the exception of the little knot of palm-trees 
where their tent was, that side of the island was a 
low sandy beach, which, indeed, ran around it like a 
belt ; but the 'interior was a fertile and beautiful val- 
ley ; and Frank saw with delight tamarinds growing 
in great profusion — a species of the bread fruit-tree, 
the cocoa-nut, and some wild nutmegs ; these last, 
however, imperfect for 'want of cultivation. The 
ground, and all the lower branches of the trees, were 
covered with the most luxuriant creeping plants, whose 
profusion of flowers Marion was never weary of 


THE INDIAN ISLAND. 


139 


gathering ; and often, after having piled them up in 
heaps, she would be found asleep half hidden amid 
their bright and odoriferous blossoms. The first 
week passed in continual voyagings backwards and 
forwards to the ship, when, as Michael had foreseen, 
a rough gale blew one night, and in the morning 
there w^as not a trace of the wreck, That very day, 
walking along the coast, Frank’s eye was caught by 
a dark mass entangled in the sea-weed : he drew it 
up by means of a hook. It was the gallant flag, that 
had once 

“ Braved the battle and the breeze,” 
of the now perished Indiaman. He laid it carefully 
out on the sands to dry, and went to impart his plan 
to Michael. The knot of palm-trees was on the only 
part of the island whose height commanded a. view 
of the sea ; yet there it was impossible for them to fix 
their residence — fresh water, fruits, and shelter, be- 
longing to the other part of the island — and yet, from 
not being on the spot, a vessel might pass and re- 
pass unobserved ; thus risking their little chance of 
escape. 

Now it happened that the most conspicuous of the 
palms was a young and slender tree: this Frank 
proposed to climb, and affix to its height the flag, 
which would be as striking a signal as any they could 
raise. Even Michael shut his eyes, as the daring boy 
ascended, with the aid of a sharp hook and a knife, 
with which he cut notches, on which he rested first 
a hand, and then a foot, till at length he was safely 


140 


THE INDIAN ISLAND. 


lodged amid the spreading branches at the top. He 
then let down a rope, with a pebble at the end, which 
had been put round his middle ; the flag was drawn 
up, and nailed to the summit in the most conspicuous 
manner ; and then, fastening the rope firmly, he des- 
cended to the ground in perfect safety, and, we may 
add satisfaction. 

The next day was the Sabbath, and was passed in 
rest and thanksgiving. When the heat of the day was 
over, they walked towards the interior of the island, 
and almost in the very centre found an immense 
banana-tree, with at least fifty green and slender pil- 
lars forming as it were a natural temple. The whole 
party knelt ; and, at her brother’s bidding, Marion’s 
innocent lips were the first to teach that solitude the 
words of prayer and praise. While they rested, 
Francis read a chapter from the Bible, which was 
his father’s parting gift ; and he can scarcely be blam- 
ed if his tears fell fast and heavy on the page. “My 
child,” said the old sailor, “ the God who has pre- 
served you so wondrously for your parent, will re- 
store you to him.” Frank looked up in hope and 
graditude, and to gather some tamarinds for Marion ; 
and, by repeating yesterday’s task of climbing a 
cocoa-nut near, made a valuable addition to their 
store.* 

» The cocoa-nut shoot up to the height of seventy, and 
sometimes eighty feet : we were told that a hundred feet 
is not uncommon, but I think we saw none so high. The 
fruit grows in immense clusters at the top of the stem, close 


THE INDIAN ISLAND. 


141 


Close beside, like a vein of silver, they found a 
pure, though small, fountain ; they steeped some of 

up to the branches. The tree from top to bottom is sur- 
rounded by a series of rings, doubtless the traces of former 
circles of branches which have successively flourished de- 
cayed, and fallen off. These rings are very distinct near 
the top ; but lower dowm the trunk becomes so smooth that 
the natives are obliged to cut notches to assist them in get- 
ting up, either to pull the fruit, or to tap the tree of its juice 
which is called toddy by the English. “ The method used 
by the natives of the east in performing this feat of climb- 
ing — In the first place, they unite their feet, either at the 
great toes or ankles, by a thong or strap about ten or 
twelve inches in length. This lies across the steps or not- 
ches cut in the tree, and is strong enough to support the 
whole weight of the body. A flat board belt is then made 
to pass round the tree, and also round the man’s middle, 
enclosing both in one ring, as it were, the body being at 
the distance of a foot or so from the tree. The climber 
commences by placing the strap which ties his feet together 
across the first or lowest step, while he adjusts the belt, 
embracing him and the tree so as to be horizontal, he then 
plants his hands firmly against the stem, and afoot, or a foot 
and a half, below the belt. By now leaning back and tighten- 
ing the body-belt, he divides his weight between it and 
his arms, so as entirely to relieve the foot-strap of all strains. 
The legs are next drawn up quietly, till the foot-strap lies 
across the second notch. The climber now removes his 
hands from the tree, and grasps the body-belt, which be- 
comes quite slack on his throwing his body forward till it 
almost touches the stem — his whole weight meanwhile 
resting on the foot-strap. By a sudden movement he then 
jerks the slakened belt about a foot and a half further up the 


142 


THE INDIAiY ISLAND. 


the fruit in the water, and, with one of the cocoa 
nuts, they made a most delicious meal. The moon 
was shining over the dim and purple sea before they 
re-gained their tent. 

For some days following, their labour was inces- 
sant — the banama tree seemed to be made too ob- 
viously for their home to be neglected ; they cut away 
some of the boughs, and, stripping off some of the 
leaves, formed a kind of wall of branches and reeds, 
of which a large species grew near, and in great 
quantities. The spring they had found oozed away 
to a considerable distance, and at last was quite lost 
in a bed of greyish clay. Frank had often seen the 
natives of the villages, whither he had sometimes gone, 
fashioning clay into any form by the action of fire, 
and an idea struck him that they might harden square 

tree. After this he once more rests his hand sonthesteim 
relieves his feet of the weight, and draws them up, as be- 
fore, till the next notch receives the foot-strap, and so on 
till he reaches the top. He carries along with him an 
earthen pot slung round his neck, and a huge knife at his 
girdle. With this he cuts away the young sprouts, and 
draws off the toddy, which appears to be the sap intended 
by nature to form the fruit. When freshly taken from the 
tree, in the cool of the morning, it forms a delicious drink, 
not unlike whey in]appearance, with a slightly acid, taste, 
and a pleasant sweetness, as well as sharpness or brisk- 
ness not very dissimilar to that of ginger-beer, only more 
racy and peculiar in its flavour.” — Captain Hall’s Frag- 
ments of Voyages and Travels^ Second series, vol 2., pp. 
217—219. 


THE INDIAN ISLAND. 


143 


pieces of this clay, so as to form a floor for their dwel- 
ling, the soft damp earth beneath the banana being 
both comfortless and unhealthy. His plan was adopt- 
ed, and they had soon a hard, dry, and firm floor. 

There being certainly no risk of robbers, they left 
most of the things brought from the wreck, on the 
palm-tree knoll, having run up a slight partition of 
boards for their protection, only taking to the banama 
what was absolutely necessary. Francis, too, was 
the archer of the party ; he had been accustomed to 
the use of a bow and arrow from his infancy, and a 
little practice made him so expert a shot that they 
were seldom without a bird for dinner ; indeed, the 
island swarmed with them ; and then they were roast- 
ed gypsy fashion — a fire was kindled on the ground, 
and the bird hung between two sticks to roast. 

No time was ever lost, and nobody was ever idle 
even Marion’s services were called in requisition; 
and she soon became very industrious in collecting 
all the light and dried sticks to be used for fuel. 
One of their first tasks had been to plant some yams 
and peas in an open space, and their labour was re- 
warded, for they throve amazingly. Whether it was 
the change, the spare diet, the exercise, and being 
constantly out in the open air, but the children be- 
came quite robust in health ; and Marion began to 
acquire a tint of crimson, quite English, on her cheek. 
Her childish age made her the happy one of the party; 
for Frank, even when most exhilarated by the success 
of any plan, was ever haunted by the thought of his 


144 


THE INDIAN ISLAND. 


father’s despair when he should learn that the Warren 
Hastings had never arrived in port. Could he but 
have had his father with him, he thought life would 
have been perfectly happy, passed in their little island 
— if he could but let him know their escape. At 
length an idea, almost an inspiration, came across 
his mind : he had heard of papers being sealed up in 
bottles, trusted to the mercy of the waves, and yet 
wonderfully coming to human knowledge at last 
Accordingly, he wrote three distinct accounts of the 
shipwreck : described, which Michael’s knowledge 
enabled him to do, the latitude of the island ; gave 
his father’s address^j and also that of his London cor- 
respondent; finally; he took three bottles, placed in 
them the precious papers, and committed them to the 
sea. He was the more encouraged to this by Michael’s 
observation, that a strong current run southward on 
the left side of the island. 

There had now elasped three months since their 
shipwreck, and the rainy season had set in. For 
this, however, they were well prepared. The bana- 
na tree stood on an emience, and two drains, that 
they had cut, carried away all moisture. The roof 
was quite impervious to rain ; and they had an ample 
stock of dried tamarinds, cocoa-nuts, heaps of the 
bread-fruit, kept in the sand like apples, their pease, 
almost all of which they had dried, biscuits, preserves, 
and salted provisions which yet remained of the ship’s 
store. They had formed three rooms, and the rest 
of the banana tree, or rather grove, was like a 


THE INDIAN ISLAND. 


145 


covered garden, where Marion could run about in 
safety. But it soon became too evident that Michael’s 
health was failing ; he complained of dull weary 
pains at night i he loathed his food, and could with 
difficulty be prevailed on to take a little tea that 
was kept exclusively for him. Some arrow-root, 
which was found in a jar, now became invaluable ; 
and, once or twice, Frank had the good luck to kill 
a bird, though the violence of the weather drove them 
mostly to shelter ; and then, after a failure or so, he 
became quite skilful in broth-making. But Michael 
grew, daily, weaker and weaker — rhe could just creep 
from and to his bed, but that was all. Every thing 
now devolved on Francis ; but Marion, who was a 
little, quiet, affectionate thing, would sit for hours by 
tl\e old man’s hammock, reach him refreshments, call 
her brother if he was wanted, and beguiled many a 
weary hour with her stock of hymns and scripture 
history. 

Fine weather came at last, but it brought no 
strength to Michael. One day, with Frank’s assis- 
tance, he wandered out a brief distance in the fresh 
morning air ; with difficulty he returned to his ham- 
mock, and thence he never rose^ — he died that very 
afternoon. About an hour before he breathed his last, 
he called Frank to his side, gave him directions how to 
bury him, told him that it was his last belief that 
God in his mercy would restore Francis and his sis- 
ter to their father, and commended to their future aid 
the faithless orphan Philip Michael, whom he had 


146 


the INDIAN ISLAND. 


himself left at Southampton. Francis wept his pro- 
mise. The old man then blessed them both, and said 
he was weary, and would fain sleep. They knew 
not w’^hen his spirit departed, for he died without a 
struggle. 

One of the singularly brilliant butterflies, with which 
the island abounded, had for some time been skim- 
ming about on its white and azure wings ; at last it 
settled on the sick man’s face; Frank rose to drive 
the insect away, and saw with terror the change of 
countenance which had taken place ; his exclamation 
brought Marion from the adjoining room, whither 
she had been sent, lest her movements might dis- 
turb Michael’s sleep. ^‘He is dead, Marion! — dead! 
He will never look at or speak to us again! We have 
lost our only friend !” The poor boy sat down on 
the wooden stool and sobbed ; Marion began to cry 
too ; and the evening closed upon their lamentations. 
The little girl was too young for sorrow and sleep 
not to be near comrades ; her brother saw her weari- 
ness, gave her the usual supper of a piece of biscuit, 
and another of cocoa nut, and watched by her till 
she was fast asleep. He then returned to the room 
where Micael lay, and remembered his last injunc- 
tions, and prepared to obey them. 

A wick, floating in a goblet of oil, gave a dim ^nd 
wavering light, scarcely sufficient for Francis to per- 
form his sorrowful business. Michael had died with 
almost the very words on his lips urging the necessity 
of immediate burial; and this the boy was preparing 
to effect — for the life had now been departed twelve 


THE INDIAN ISLAND. 


147 


hours — and he himself wished to avoid leaving any 
gloomy impressions on the mind of such an infant as 
Marion: for himself he had no fear; he knew God 
was as much present with the dead as with the living. 

It was almost beyond, his strength; but by low’er- 
ing the hammock, as Michael had directed, on a 
frame which was below, and which, running on four 
rudely constructed wheels, had been used to drag 
whatever they had wanted from the store at the palm- 
knoll, he contrived to convey the body from the 
dwelling. He took the w'ay he had been told ; and 
the burden was easily drawn, for it was on a descend- 
ing slope the whole way. 

He soon reached the palm the old sailor had indi- 
cated, and there saw what had been the last employ- 
ment of his more than kind protector — the grave w’as 
ready dug. Frank sat down by its side ; and sobbed 
as if his heart were breaking ; at length he tighened 
the ropes of the hammock till it closed, like a shroud 
round the body : he turned over the frame, and it fell 
with a heavy sound into the deep grave. Frank 
paused for a moment, and then proceeded to throw in 
the mould heaped on either side. The pit was at last 
full; but he could not bear to trample it down. He 
then knelt, and by the light of the clear full moon, 
now shining in the glory of a tropical night, read 
aloud the burial service of the dead. The solemn and 
consoling words had their due effect. With a tran- 
quilised spirit he returned home. His sister had 
never before been left for one quarter of an hour by 


J48 


THE INDIAN ISLAND. 


herself; yet he had felt no anxiety, Providence Vvas 
watching over her, and there he found her ; her little 
arm under her head, almost hidden by the black curls, 
the sweet breath coming regularly from her parted 
lips, one cheek flushed into the brightest rose and 
seeming as if she had never stirred since he had part- 
ed from her. Francis did not himself attempt to go 
to bed. At length fatigue overpowered him, and he 
slept long and sweetly. On his awakening he found 
Marion seated at his feet watching, but without an 
effort to disturb him, though it was long past noon. 
Mournfully, indeed, did the first week pass away 
without Michael ; incessant were Marion’s enquiries 
when he w'ould return: it is so difficult to give a child 
an idea of death. But, as day after day passed by, 
poor Frank grew more anxious; for now the pro- 
visions, saved from the wreck, w’ere almost exhaust- 
ed. All that were left he put by carefully for the 
rainy season ; he also, unless one now and then, as a 
rare treat to Marion, saved all the cocoa-nuts; and 
they lived entirely on what birds he shot, and the 
tamarinds. Both, however, continued in perfect 
health ; and Marion now^ began to read prettily. Still, 
he dreaded’the approach of the rainy season ; for, with 
all his exertion, his stock of food ran short, and his 
crop of pease had failed. 

During Michael’s lifetime, not a day had passed bu^ 
he had gone to the sea- shore; now he could only go 
at intervals, for he had no one to take charge of 
Marion in his absence, and it was too far for her to 


TM£ ISLANJ). 


14d 

walk, unless they could give nearly the whole day, 
and, by dining under the palm-trees, allow sufficient 
time for her to rest. The red flag still floated in the 
air, and on the trunk of the tree he carved the follow* 
ing inscription — “ Francis and Marion Selwyn were 
saved from the wreck of the Warren Hastings, and 
are now living on this island. Should any land, they 
are implored not to leave the shore without first 
searching the interior.” Having thus taken every 
possible precaution, they rarely left their own hut ; 
and Frank busily employed himself in endeavouring 
to salt some of the birds he killed, and, by drying them 
over the smoke of a wood fire, found he succeeded 
very tolerably. 

The rainy season again commenced ; and it was 
with a heavy heart Frank listened to the rushing of 
the ^first mighty rains. However, he was too busy 
for despondency; several chests of clothes had floated 
on shore, and both were now employed in recruiting 
their own dilapidated wardrobe. The blue checked 
shirts were invaluable, for out of these he made 
Marion’s new frocks, which he decorated very gaily 
with the bright coloured feathers he had collected in 
great quantities. The sewing certainly was a curi- 
osity ; for his only needle was a fine splinter of wood, 
in which he had burnt an eye : and it may be guessed 
that he was not very expert in its use. Still, the frock 
kept her warm, the feathers were quite gay, Marion 
thought herself an Indian princess at least. Making 
baskets of the various twigs he had collected was 

X 2. 


150 


THE INDIAN ISLAND. 


another source of employment ; and teaching Marion 
filled up the day. But the long dark nights were 
very tedious; for they had no lights, and no means of 
making any; and the small portion of oil left after 
Michael’s death was husbanded carefully in case of 
an emergency. With great joy did both the children 
watch the abating rains ; and the first day they could 
get as far as the palm-trees was one of absolute fes- 
tivity. 

They had been a year and three months on the is- 
land, when, one day, as Francis was climbing a ta- 
marind tree, the branches on which he stood gave 
way : he was precipitated to the ground, and sprained 
his ankle. For the first time Frank thought their 
situation hopeless ; their little garden must now re- 
main uncfultivated; their fruit ungathered, and unfor- 
tunately, the accident had happened at a considerable 
distance from home. 

“ Marion, my poor little sister!” exclaimed he, lean, 
ing his face on her shoulder, while he felt the large 
tears of the affectionate child falling on his hand. 
Both started ; for at that moment they most assurdly 
heard the sound of voices. Frank sprang to his feet 
but the pain was excruciating, and he sank on the 
grass. Voices were again heard, when, joining his 
hands together, so as to convey the sound farther, he 
gave a loud shout. It was answered ; figures appear., 
ed among the trees, and in another moment they were 
in the arms of their father. 

The blessing of God had been upon their plan ; one 


151 


Tlit INDIAN ISLAND, 

of the bottles had been picked up at sea, and forward- 
ed to Mr. Selwyn, who lost not a moment in hasten- 
ing to the place indicated. A little assistance allayed 
the pain of J^rank’s ankle ; and a sort of hand-barrow 
was soon formed. He was seated on it, and carried 
in triumph by the sailors; for not one but shared in 
the admiration excited by the resolution and the re- 
sources he had displayed. Little Marion in her robe 
of parti-coloured feathers, and her hat of palm-leaves, 
W'as for the next two days her father's guide. It will 
readily be believed with what interest every spot in 
the island was visited. At Frank’s earnest desire, a 
large wooden cross was placed over Michael’s grave; 
and there (for a few' days’ rest and care restored the 
use of his ankle ; and during those few days the ship 
was taking in fresh water) he and Marion paid their 
last visit. 

The voyage was unmarked by any adventure ; and, 
with no ordinary feelings of thankfulness, Mr. Selwyn 
found himself once more in his native land, and with 
his children at his side. It will be readily supposed 
that the first employment of the Selwyns was to find 
out Philip Michael. To oblige Francis, they them- 
selves went to Southampton, where they learn that, 
his uncle being dead, he had been placed, by the 
parish, in the service of a neighbouring farmer. 
Thither Mr. Selwyn and his son directed their steps. 
Philip came into the room — a fine intelligent looking 
lad, but pale and depressed. Mr. Selwyn asked 


152 


THE INDIAN ISLAND. 


Francis what he wished to have done for the lad they 
were about to take into their own care. 

‘‘ His father was my father, and shall he not be my 
brother V* 

Mr. Selwyn embraced his child; and from that hour 
the young Michael was treated as one of their family. 
He did their gratitude ample credit; and amid all 
the prosperity which was the lot of their future life, 
none of them ever forgot their early lessons of exer- 
tion, content; and reliance on Providence. 


FRANCES BEAUMONT. 



r / o it« ii A ail X a ! ) /i / n a 



i;.i7 


FRANCES BEAUMONT. 


CHAPTER I. 


November’s night is dark and drear, 
The dullest month of all the year. 


And yet the November evening now closing in 
round Mrs. Cameron’s house was of a very cheerful 
nature. The sea breeze, for the house was at Brigh- 
ton. howled over the roof, but only made the fire burn 
the brighter. A large and old fashioned mantel-shelf, 
divers ornaments a little the worse for the wear, but 
still in tolerable preservation ; and the well filled grate 
below flung forward the huge shadow of the high 
fender that surrounded it. The school-room, for such 
was the apartment of which we speak, was a spacious 
apartment, the walls were hung round with maps, and 
deal tables and benches, and small upright chairs were 
its principal furniture* To be sure there was Mrs. 
Cameron’s small mahogany table and her arm chair, 
and these were a variety from the plain boards. But 
it was human life to which the room owed its cheer- 
fulness — groups of young and happy faces were scat- 
tered around, the sound of childish voices rose plea- 


156 


PRANCES BEAUMONT. 


santly to the roof, and the echo of their laughter 
echoed gaily from the old walls. Mrs. Cameron’s 
was a very select establishment, her systems were 
always of the newest and most approved order; it 
was a common remark that no one could mistake the 
dancing of one of her pupils, and their performance 
on the harp was equally celebrated. The following 
one was the most important of the year. The prizes 
were distributed, drawings were exhibited, songs and 
sonatas were applauded, and the evening concluded 
with a ball. The various groups were all busy in 
some preparation for the morrow. Here sandals were 
being sown on white satin shoes, there the bows were 
being fastened on a white satin sash, and one of the 
teachers had already begun curling the hair of some 
of the younger children. Near her were three of the 
elder girls, happily employed in doing nothing ; — talk- 
ing over the events that were to happen on the mor- 
row was very sufficient employment. 

I wish Fanny Beaumont were here, I want to ask 
her advice whether I shall tack on my blue or white 
trimmings,” 

She is still with the signor,” said the second, 
“ her singing is to be something wonderful to-mor- 
row.” 

<< And I want to see her dress,” exclaimed a third. 

“ Talking of dress,” interrupted the teacher, ** I 
wish one of you would put a string in little Isabel’s 
frock. I have my hands full, and shall never get done. 
By the bye, that tiresome child has not yet said her 


TRANCES BEAUMONT. 


157 


French lesson. Miss Elphinstone, bring your book 
hither. At these dreadful words, a little girl came 
from one of the farthest corners, she was very dark, 
thin and pale, her face swelled with crying, and the 
red circle round her eyes quite destroyed any beauty 
they might from their size or expression have possess- 
ed. She gave the volume with a trembling hand — 
and began to repeat the intricate French verb. She 
was too anxious and too timid to say it, even if she 
knew it, and the grammar was returned with the en- 
couraging exclamation of “You grow stupider every 
day, and while you are poking over that old verb, 
who is to mend your frock, I should like to know — ” 
The child di& not attempt an answer, but returned to 
her corner and there indulged, if indulgence it could 
be called, in a fresh burst of sobs. At this moment a 
voice was heard in the passage running over the notes 
of a popular Italian song — the door opened, and in 
bounded, but with a vivacity full of grace, a tall 
handsome girl, with a profusion of bright hair falling 
in the softest ringlets, whom twenty different tones 
greeted with the same ejaculation.” 

“ Fanny Beaumont, do come here.” 

No patriot fresh from an harrangue to the people, 
no General in the first flush of victory, and its conse- 
quences, illuminations and public dinners; not even 
these have a popularity that comes more immediate 
and home to them than a popular school girl. Her 
circle is small, but its triumph is complete. 

Fanny Beaumont was courted and flattered by eve- 
o 


158 


FRANCES BEAUMONT. 


ry member of the little society of which she was the 
star. Her mistress was proud of the elegant and ac- 
complished pupil who did her establishment such cre- 
dit, nor was she insensible to the large bills duly paid, 
nor to the handsome presents which wound up every 
year in the most agreeable manner. With the teach- 
ers she was an equal favourite, her liberality was un- 
bounded, and her purse always well filled, but that was 
little compared with the kindly manner in which she 
conferred a favor : a lively temper, a constant readiness 
to afford assistance, made her equally beloved by her 
companions, and in Fanny Beaumont’s case the old 
proverb had no truth, that a favorite has no friends. 
In her case every possible advantage seemed realized. 
The darling of wealthy parents, neither pains nor cost 
were spared on her education, and she had those na- 
tural talents which reward cultivation, while she had 
what was even more than talent, that kindness of 
heart, and that sweet and affectionate disposition, 
which even prosperity cannot spoil. As she past up 
the room, her step buoyant, and her beautiful face 
beaming with gaiety and health — she seemed like the 
very extreme contrast to the pale and sickly child 
who sat weeping in the corner, the only one who did 
not call her. But the poor little West Indian was not 
over-looked — Frances’ quick eye soon observed her 
trouble, and turning to her side, she said in a low and 
consoling whisper, ‘‘ The signor kept me longer than 
1 expected, but I have not forgotten my promise to help 
you with the French lesson— What, crying, my poor 


FRANCES EEAUJIONT. 


159 


Emeline, fie, fie, dry up your tears, while I am speak- 
ing to Miss Aiken, and I shall be back in a moment. 
You know how well ‘we always get on together.” 

The child gave one deep sob, but it was the last, and 
Fanny went to the fire-place to settle the important 
question of blue or white trimming. “ White, by all 
means, and when the children are gone, I will tack it 
on for you.” 

Oh, Miss Beaumont,” exclaimed the teacher, “she 
has nothing to do, and I was going to ask you to help 
me with Miss Elphinstone’s frock I am sure it is a 
shame to ask you to touch such an old thing.” 

“ Never mind, I will come and make myself gen- 
erally useful in five minutes.” 

“ I must say,” .remarked the teacher, as she left 
the fire-place, “ Miss Beaumont is an example to you 
all, she never minds her own trouble, and does re- 
member that of other people.” 

The object of her eulogium in the mean time had 
sought out the poor little learner in the dark corner, 
who awaited her with tears already dried, and eyes 
beginning to brighten. Infinite were the pains she 
bestowed on a pupil w’ho was rather timid than stu- 
pid, and whose success at last rewarded her exertions. 
“ You can say it now. Take up your book, and if 
you repeat it w^ell, 1 will ask leave to curl your hair 
myself.” The child took up her lesson, fortified by 
the consciousness of knowing it properly. While she 
was saying it, a summons came for Miss Beaumont 
to the parlor, a box had arrived for her from Lon- 
don. 


160 


FRAPfCES BEAUMONT. 


‘‘ Be sure you bring your dress in here to shew us," 
was the universal exclamation. Fanny promised, and 
tripped lightly away. Her absence was however 
longer than they expected ; at last she returned bring- 
ing with her a very elegant looking dress, which she 
good naturedly held on high, for general inspection. 
One little step this time ventured to meet her, and a 
little face bright with smiles, looked up as Emeline 
Elphinstone whispered “ I have said my lesson." 

“ It is very beautiful,” exclaimed Miss Aiken, “ but 
it is white muslin ; I thought that you said you would 
have white crape, this half." 

“ I could not afford it," replied Fanny ; and white 
muslin is just as pretty. But look at the white rib- 
bon trimming. I am sure I can put on yours just the 
same." 

“And Miss Aiken perhaps will do Miss Elphin- 
Stoners frock." “ Leave that lo me,” exclaimed Fan- 
ny, “ you know she is my child, and as she has said 
her lesson, uill you let me curl her hair ?" 

“ Yes, and thank you into the bargain," replied the 
teacher, glad to get rid of the job. 

The little West Indian's lot was very different from 
that of her protector. She came to school straight 
from her native island, ignorant, spoilt, and with even 
more than a usual share of indolence belonging to a 
warmer climate. She had however more indulgences 
than the other children, her father seemed desirous of 
making up to her for the necessity of sending her 
from home. The allow^ance made on her account 


FRANCES BEAUMONT. 


161 


was more than liberal, it was extravagant ; her pock- 
et-money was quite unfit for a child of her age, so 
was her dress, and for the first year of her residence 
in England, she labored under all the disadvantages 
of undue preference, and improper indulgence. For- 
tune however had a severe lesson in store. She had 
not been above some fifteen months at Mrs. Cameron^s 
before the usual remittances failed. 

It was war-time, and one vessel after another was 
intercepted: a year had elapsed, and Mrs. Cameron’s 
‘‘ little account” as she always called it, was still un- 
settled. She was too humane a woman to make any 
alteration in the treatment of her pupil ; moreover she 
did not dislike talking about the interest she took in 
the unfortunate child, whose destitute situation was 
such an appeal to her feelings.” But in the school. 
Miss Elphinstone’s position was wholly changed, she 
had no longer any pocket money, and, with that, dis- 
appeared all the considerations and indulgences it had 
procured. Obliged to go wearing her dresses, which 
she was daily outgrowing, their alteration and repairs 
were a perpetual source of discontent to the teachers, 
and of this discontent Emeline soon felt the effects. 
Her slow progress in her studies became matter of 
constant complaint, and even Mrs. Cameron became 
more severe, for she felt she could not justify to her- 
self any neglect of an education that might hereafter 
be its possessor’s sole resource. A miserable child 
was Emeline Elphinstone. She missed the petting, 

the niceties, and the excuses to which she had been 
o2 


162 


FRANCES BEAUMONT. 


hitherto accustomed. Too much was expected from 
her at first, she grew discouraged, and persuaded of 
her own inability, soon obtained the character of equal 
sullenness and stupidity. She was so often in disgrace 
that she lost all hope of avoiding it. 

Children are too often unkind to one another, and 
deny the allowance they so much need in their own 
case. Emeline Elphinstone was not a pretty child, 
she was little for her age, thin and awkward, her dark 
complexion, unrelieved by any shade of colour, gave 
a heaviness to her countenance, which was not im* 
proved by a profusion of black hair never in very 
good order. Fanny Beaumont had been absent from 
school for half a year, and on her return, her quick 
and kind feelings were at once enlisted on the behalf 
of the poor pale little thing whom she saw constantly 
moping about, or crying in some corner or other. In 
spite of all that was said of her dulness and her ob- 
stinacy, she took her under her especial charge, and 
was more than repaid by the affection of the grateful 
child. 

Her task was not an easy one. Tindd and hope- 
less — she had some difficulty in persuading Emeline 
that it was possible to learn at all. Her native in- 
dolence too was a great obstacle — but the most un- 
wearying patience was gradually successful, and it 
was allowed that “ Miss Beaumont would make some- 
thing of that stupid child at last.^’ 

Miss Beaumont was quite convinced of this herself. 
In ohe branch, she made great progress ; one too 


TRANCES BEAUMONT. 


163 


which had as yet been un attempted, but Fanny, who 
observed her ear for music, resolved on beginning to 
teach her. The child made great progress, and it 
was useful in two ways. First, it shewed Emeline 
that there was something she could learn, and learn 
well ; and secondly, that very learning became the 
reward of her other exertions. 

A bright sunny morning was the next day, only 
less cheerful than the eyes which it awakened : at an 
early hour the school room was all gaiety and bustle. 
There were garlands to be suspended, green boughs 
to be placed, and flowers to be arranged — in all this 
Fanny’s taste was as. conspicuous as her activity. 
The garlands were mostly of her making, the flowers 
most of her nursing, and all allowed that none could 
dispose them with half the effect that she could. The 
task was at length completed, the school rooms had 
truly put on their holiday look, and Mrs. Cameron 
was called in to approve and to admire. She was a 
lady-like person, a little stately, but that suited well 
with the authority of her station. She came in, and 
looked round, I must say, young ladies, this is pret- 
tier than ever, your exertions leave me nothing to 
desire — but you must not over tire yourselves. I 
want to have you all looking as well as possible.” 

She then walked through the rooms, admired them 
in detail, and said something pleasant to almost every 
one. “I believe now I have nothing more to say, 
you have all my directions. Ah, yes, one thing I had 
forgotten. — Miss Marshal, and Miss Elphinstone, 


16i 


FRANCES BEAUMONT. 


come here. Why, my loves, you have at least fifty 
curl-papers in — but I suppose to-day the ringlets are 
to be in extra order — Yes, it is just as I thought, they 
are exactly of a height — They shall walk together in 
the march.” 

“ I beg your pardon, Madam,” said one of the 
teachers following her to the door, “ but you said, 
yesterday — Miss Marshal was to lead the march by 
herself. It is a very- conspicuous place, and really 
Miss Elphinstone’s dress is a disgrace.” 

‘‘ Never mind,” replied Mrs. Cameron, ‘‘ Miss Beau- 
mont has undertaken her toilette, and I have great 
confidence in Fanny’s taste. By the way, Fannv, I 
want to consult you about the flowers on the table in 
the saloon.” 

“Well, if that is not too bad,” exclaimed Miss 
Marshal — a little fair-haired blue-eyed girl, who was 
the school pet and beauty. “And so, with my new 
dress, I am to walk with- that shabby thing.” No 
one else expressed this sentiment so loudly — but many 
felt it, and it produced a general feeling of ill will to 
the unlucky Emeline, to whom it soon showed itself 
in the shape of taunts and sneers. Pride checked the 
poor child’s tears, but she retreated to a corner, where 
her utmost efforts could not prevent the long eye-lashes 
from glittering. With a down-cast head she heard the 
various groups disperse and go up stairs to the agree- 
able duties of dressing. Suddenly she heard a li^rhi 
and well-known step— and a glad sweet voice ex- 


FRANCES BEAUMONT. 


165 


claimed “ Why is my little Emeline seated all alone, 
what is she thinking about 

** I was thinking,” said the child earnestly, for she 
was scarcely yet aroused from the train of thoughts 
in which she was engrossed, ‘‘how pleasant it was 
for Cinderella to have a godmother, who was a fairy.” 

And also thinking, I guess, that you would like 
such a godmother too.” 

“ Ah, I wish that I had one, indeed.” 

“ And what would be your first wish ?” 

A new frock — for Miss Marshal says mine is so 
shabby she will be ashamed to walk with me.” 

‘‘ It is very wrong of Miss Marshal to say any such 
thing, but come up stairs with me, and we will see 
whether we shall not do very w^ell without fairy or 
god mother.” 

Fanny ran rapidly towards her own room, follow- 
ed by her little companion. “ Look there,” exclaimed 
she. Emeline looked in the direction to which she 
pointed ; and, laid out on the bed, was a little white 
muslin frock, trimmed with white satin ribbon. “ Who 
do you think that is for ?” 

Emeline looked first at the frock, it was just the 
length of her own : then in the smiling face of her 
youthful freind — she could not speak, a hope too de- 
lightful for expression had lighted up her large dark 
eyes. 

“ Yes, it is for you, my little Emeline must wear 
it for my sake.” Emeline threw her arms round 
her neck, but it was some moments before she could 


166 


FRANCES BEAUMONT. 


speak her thanks. Her little eyes were full of tears 
and gratitude for a while over-powered even pleasure. 

Fanny kissed her, and then said ‘‘We are late, and 
must, make so much haste ; besides I long to know if 
it will fit you.” 

She began to unfasten the numerous curl-papers 
which had cost her so much labour the night before. 
The hair was in first rate curl, and by the time some 
half dozen ringlets were combed out, Emeline found 
voice to say, “ I can never thank you enough my 
dearest, kindest Miss Beaumont, but I am so happy. 

Indeed her happiness was too great to allow of her 
standing still, only Fanny at last very judiciously 
turned her face towards the new dress, and the hair 
was soon finished. The frock fitted to perfection, 
and, again thanking and kissing its kind donor, Em- 
eline hurried to the school-room where she was 
greeted with a universal exclamation of surprise. “It 
is Miss Beaumont’s present,” exclaimed the child, 
eager to proclaim the name of her benefactor. 

“ I now understand why Miss Beaumont could not 
afford white crape,” remarked Miss Aiken. 

“It is just like her,” replied the teacher. Fanny’s 
own toilette was hurried, all important as was the day» 
by the information that her causin Mr. Beaumont was 
w^aiting to see her in the parlour. Fanny hastily 
smoothed back her beautiful ringlets, and, without 
even a last look at the glass to judge of the general 
effect, hurried down stairs. Mr. Beaumont was a lad 


TRANCES BEAUMONT. 


167 


of about nineteen, but his sailor’s dress made him look 
still younger. 

“ How glad I am to see you,” exclaimed she on en- 
tering the room, “ you are come just in time to dance 
with me to-night. I shall see how well you remember 
my lessons.” 

“ Nay,” replied her cousin, “ I should be very sorry 
to bring you to shame with my akwardness, though I 
remember one part of your lessons very well, namely 
your patience ; but I am only come to bid you good 
bye.” 

“ Good bye ? where are you going 

“ I am going to Portsmouth, and this is a sort of a 
way to it. My ship is under sailing orders, but I 
could not leave England without a last look at my 
pretty cousin.” 

“ I am so sorry,” said Fanny in a melancholy tone, 

I shall miss you so in the holidays.” 

“ And I am sure I shall miss you, but I am glad to 
go to sea again; I hate staying at home doing noth- 
ing. Perhaps a day may come when I shall show my 
uncle and all of you that I do not forget your kind- 
ness.” 

“ But are you really obliged to go to-day ? Could 
you not stay just this one evening ?” 

“ Quite impossible : but I see that I am come just 
in time, for, Fanny, you are as gay as a queen. So 
saying he turned her round to admire her dress, and, 
taking a little parcel from his pocket, undid several 
folds of paper, and finally produced a small gold chain 


168 


FRANCES BEAUMONT. 


and a cornelian heart. ** I have brought you a keep- 
sake, and you must \vear it lo-day.^’ 

“ How very pretty,” exclaimed she, ‘‘ how kind 
you are to think of me. 1 shall take such care of it 
for your sake.” 

“ I will bring you a chain from Trinchinopoly when 
I come back, but you will have a long time to wait 
for it.” 

Fanny eyes filled with tears, and George felt incli- 
ned to follow her example, but this the dignity of his 
uniform forbade, and bidding “ God bless you, dear- 
est Fanny,’^ in a broken voice, he hurried to the door 
and was gone while she was yet standing in the mid- 
dle of the room, with the chain in her hand ; a step 
in the passage aroused her, and she ran into her owm 
apartment, where she first cried her eyes red, and 
then exhausted her stock of rosew’ater in effacing the 
traces of tears. Time past on, and she heard her 
name called more than once before she obeyed the 
summons. Never had she felt so little inclined for 
exertion. Still, when she entered the room, it was 
not in the nature of a girl of sixteen to be insensible 
to the praises bestowed on her appearance. Mrs. 
Cameron’s smile was a great stimulus, she felt that 
she was bound to do her kind instructress all the cre- 
dit that could be given by the display of whatever 
accomplishments she might possess. The sight of 
Emeliiie, who turned towards her a face literally 
“ covered all over with smiles,” was very cheering. 
The company began to assemble, and Fanny entered, 


TRANCES BEAUMONT. 


169> 


like the rest, into the pleasant anxiety and excitement 
of the hour. Many an admiring eye was cast upon 
her, and scarcely one there but asked, who was that 
very lovely girl V* 

We have said before that Mrs. Cameron’s manner 
was a little stately, the consequence perhaps ’of her 
tall and erect and figure, but, she united with it a 
graciousness, and a happiness of phrase, that an am- 
bassadress might have envied. Every prize was given 
with a few kind and encouraging words that doubled 
its value ; and the parents around were divided be- 
tween admiration of the good fortune which had bless- 
ed them with such children, and of the governess who 
so well understood how to devolope such excellent 
dispositions. But every human triumph must have its 
end, and even this eventful morning drew to a close. 
The visitors adjourned to the saloon to partake the 
light refreshment of an elegant looking luncheon, and 
the children gladly gathered round a table covered 
with good things of a more substantial order. After 
dinner was concluded, Mrs. Cameron, whose other 
visiters were by that time dispersed, came to do the 
honors of the dessert, which was this day plentifully 
allotted to the school girls; she helped them herself to 
wine and fruit, expressing her great satisfaction at 
the way in which everything had gone off. You must 
now, all of you, keep very quiet till the evening, that 
you may be able to enjoy yourselves. Dancing will 
begin at eight o’clock.” 

She rose from the table, but when she reached the 

p 


170 


FRANCES BEAUMONT. 


door, turned round, and again thanked the young ladies 
for their exertions, “ and it were injustice. Miss Beau- 
mont, to pass you over without saying how much I 
was gratified by the universal approbation which re- 
warded your efforts — you even surpassed my expecta- 
tions.”- No wonder that Fanny’s heart beat, and her 
cheek glowed with conscious pleasure. 


FRANCES BEAUMONT. 


171 


CHAPTER 11. 


Fannv was seated in the centre of a group who 
were discussing the events of the morning, and in the 
gaiety of youthful spirits, extracting mirth out of the 
merest trifle, when the door of the school room opened 
suddenly, and Miss Beaumont, you are wanted,” 
broke up the little circle. 

Fanny hurried away, amid the exclamations of the 
girls, “ We hope you will soon be back again.” 

To her great surprise she met Mrs. Cameron in the 
passage, who, looking pale and agitated, caught Fan- 
ny’s hand, and )ed her into the parlor where the mo- 
ther’s maid was standing, looking even yet more pale. 
“ What is the matter, my father, my mother I” ex- 
claimed Fanny, fearing she knew not what. 

“Compose yourself, my dearest girl,” said Mrs. 
Cameron, “ your mother has sent for you home, 1 
grieve to say your Father” the unfinished sen- 

tence died on her lips. 

“ He is ill, for God’s sake, do not let us lose a mo- 
ment, I shall be ready in an instant.” She flew out 
of the room, and with a trembling hand Mrs. Came- 
ron rang the bell, and desired one of the teachers to 
go and render Miss Beaumont all possible assistance. 
Then, pouring out a glass of wine which she made 


172 


FRANCES BEAUMONT. 


the servant drink, she gathered from her a more 
distinct account of the circumstances which led to 
this sudden summons. Mr. Beaumont was no more. 
He had been found in his library, before a table co- 
vered with papers, among which he had- seemed busi- 
ly engaged. The butler, who went to call him to 
breakfast, found his master dead. Mrs. Beaumont 
was in a state of distraction. Her only intelligible 
words were those which asked for her daughter Fan- 
ny, and the woman had of her own accord, or rather 
after a consultation with her fellow servants, set off 
to fetch the unfortunate girl. Hastily cautioning her 
against telling the melancholy intelligence till her 
young mistress was in the carriage, and there to com- 
municate it as gently as possible, Mrs. Cameron broke 
off her discourse, for, in less time than had seemed 
possible, Fanny came down equipped for her journey. 
A hasty embrace, a few broken wmrds, and a falter- 
ing God bless you, my poor dear child,” from her 
governess, and Fanny found herself driving off with 
a rapidity that added to the confusion of her ideas. 

“ Can they not drive faster exclaimed she in an 
agony of fear. 

‘‘ Lord, Miss, it is of no use now,” said the servant. 
Fanny sprang from her seat, she looked almost doubt- 
fully in the face of her attendant : it confirmed her 
worst terror, and she sank back insensible. It were 
needlessly painful to enter into the detail of that mis- 
erable journey, but all that Fanny had previously en- 
dured seemed as nothing when she drove into the 


FRANCES BEAUMONT. 


173 


street where they lived, and saw the house shut up ; 
they stopped, and the door was opened by a stranger, 
though their own servant stood in the passage. 

How is my mother asked she, in a voice 
scarcely audible. The old man only shook his head, 
he could not find words to answer. Fanny had hardly 
power to reach her mother’s apartment, &he leant for 
a moment against the wall, before she entered. Be- 
wildered as she was by the shock with which death and 
sorrow had come upon her, she could not but notice 
another strange man passing along the passage. The 
desire of avoiding him gave her courage to enter the 
room. Dark as it was, she could see her mother laid 
on the sofa, and her little sister seated on a stool be- 
side. On her entrance, the child looked up with a 
frightened air, but, instantly recognising her, ran and 
clasped her round the neck, and Fanny felt her face 
wet with tears: alas ! the poor little creature had no 
other means of expression, for she was deaf and 
dumb. Fanny took her up in her arms, and ap- 
proached the couch on tip-toe, where Mrs. Beaumont 
was extended in the worn-out sleep of exhaustion. — 
Knowing her mother’s habits, she was surprised to 
find her without an attendant, but, fearing to disturb 
her, she sat down quietly, with Edith on her knee, 
and gave way to a subdued, but agonizing burst of 
tears. Suddenly the door of the apartment opened, 
and in rushed the companion of her journey, too agi- 
tated to have the least self-control. “ Oh, Miss,” ex- 
claimed she sobbing hysterically, ‘‘ this is too dread- 

p 2 


174 


FRANCES BEAUMONT* 


ful, there is an execution in the house/' The noise 
roused Mrs. Beaumont, who started up from her slum- 
her, she looked wildly around, and almost shrieked,^ 
Can I not be quiet one moment 
“ Mother, dearest Mother/' whispered Fanny, 
springing forward, and, in another instant, she was 
clasped in her Mother's arms, whose violent weeping 
at last exhausted itself : and she remained, her head 
resting on her daughter’s shoulder, in a state of com- 
plete stupefaction. It was night before Fanny could 
steal away, she could not rest, without having per- 
formed the last s6lemn duty — She went to look on 
her father’s beloved face, now pale and set in the cold 
rigidity of death — She knelt down there quite alone, 
no one watched beside the deserfrd coffin, but the 
lonely and heart-stricken orphan, who passed the night 
in prayer. The next day brought neither comfort nor 
hope — her poor little afflicted sister followed her about 
the darkened house, like her shadowy, looking ill and 
pale, but lacking the power to express her sympathy, 
or lessen either fear, or sorrow, by the kindly inter- 
course of words. ^ 

Her mother’s state was deplorable, she sank beneath 
the pressure , of misfortune, without an effort at self- 
control, or exertion — to lie on the sofa, and cry her- 
self to sleep was all of which she was as yet capable. 
She was only roused into something like anger, by 
her favorite maid leaving her, as she had an offer 
from a lady who was about to travel, and had always 
so much admired her style of doing Mrs. Beaumont’s 
hair. 


FRANCES BEAUMONT. 


175 


Every order, indeed every thing, devolved upon 
Fanny, and the difficulties around her might well have 
appalled one far older, and far wiser, than an inexpe- 
rienced school girl. Mr. Beaumont’s commercial un- 
dertakings had been of a wide and speculative order, 
and their failure had been total. One loss had follow- 
ed upon another, and the failure of a bank, with which 
he was connected, was the last and heaviest misfor- 
tune of all. The shock had doubtless hastened his 
death, and it was impossible for any situation to be 
more utterly destitute than that in which he had 
left his family. In his prosperity, hard, arrogant and 
grasping, he had made no friends — and his children 
were equally without support, assistance, or advice. 

Mrs. Beaumont, a vain, pretty, and silly woman, 
was utterly unable to bear up against the torrent of 
misfortune which assailed her. To lament, and won- 
der, was all of which Mrs. Beaumont was capable. 
Twenty times a day she would say, “ But your papa 
was so rich, he must have left something for us. It is 
very cruel of those odious creditors all sorrow for 
her husband’s memory was swallowed up in reproach. 
Fanny used every effort to console, and when she 
could not soothe, at least she listened patiently. 

Mrs. Beaumont’s jewels were of course taken, but 
Fanny’s manner had so much interested one of the 
creditors, who had a daughter about her age, that 
he exerted himself in the cause of the bereaved 
family. 

They were allowed to retain their personal effects — 


176 


FRANCES BEAUMONT, 


and these he also aided Fanny to dispose of, for she 
saw at once their uselessness in what was likely to 
be their future situation. Her mother would exhaust 
herself in useless complaints, find fault with every in- 
evitable arrangement, and end by leaving the almost 
broken-hearted girl to manage as she could. At last, 
her discontent took the form of an earnest longing to 
leave London: it was the best possible shape it could 
have taken, for had the proposal originated in any one 
but herself, it would have been impossible to obtain her 
consent. The only servant who remained with them 
was the housemaid, who was Fanny^s chief attendant. 
Her strong attachment to her'young mistress induced 
her to linger with them to the last. She often spoke 
of her native village, and of her Aunt, who lived 
there, and the idea struck Fanny that it might afford 
them a home, quiet and as cheap as their circum- 
stances required. She soon obtained all the requisite 
information, and, finding that the said Aunt had two 
rooms which she was glad to let — wrote to say that 
her mother would take them, and that they might 
be expected at the end of the week. Mrs. Beaumont 
complained bitterly of the haste in which the ar- 
rangement was made, but the absolute necessity of 
leaving their own house silenced, if it did not satisfy^ 
her. Mary went with them to the coach, and the 
tears of the affectionate girl were the only ones shed 
at the departure of those who had so recently been 
the centre of so gay and brilliant a circle. 


FRANCES BEAUMONT. 


177 


But Mr. and Mrs. Beaumont had abused their pros- 
perity. They had attached no one by the ties of 
kindness and gratitude. They had aimed only at 
worldly success, and at the time of trouble it was 
truly a reed that pierced those who leant on it for 
support. 


178 


TRANCES BEAUMONT. 


CHAPTER III. 


Poor little Edith was the only one to whom the 
journey gave any pleasure. But to one whose chief 
source of enjoyment was in what she saw, the coach- 
es, the moving fields, and hedges, the various towns 
through which they passed, were constant amuse- 
ment. 

The smile with which, at every new object, she 
sought her sister’s eye, was Fanny’s only consolation- 
She was thankful, too, that there was no one but 
themselves in the coach, so that Mrs. Beaumont’s com-, 
plainings reached no ear but her own. 

The high road did not pass within some three miles 
of the secluded village, which was henceforth to be 
their home, but the housemaid had given them suffi- 
cient directions, and the coach stopped at the corner 
of a shadowy lane, which led to Sherban — a man 
and a carl were there stationed waiting their arrival. 

It was a relief to the whole party to alight weary 
alike of the perpetual motion and the confinement of 
the stage. The lane was green and shadowy, and 
the hedges filled with the sweetness of the late violets. 
A soft uncertain wind shook the branches, the only 
sound that disturbed the deep tranquillily of the 
scene. There were large clouds floating on the sk^. 


FRANCES BEAUMONT. 


179 


but as yet the sunshine rested in all its brightness on 
the little open space that bordered the highway with 
its two old elms. 

Mrs. Beaumont took the hand of the little Edith 
and sauntered a few paces along the turf, leaving 
Fanny to make all the necessary arrangements. 

Poor child, for she was but a child in years, though 
the bitter cares of the world had come upon her thus 
early — she had acquired the experience of life in a 
few weeks. 

Brought up only to the exercise of graceful ac- 
complishment, accustomed to attendance and indul- 
gence, she had suddenly found the necessity of exer- 
tion. She had learnt not only to do every-thing for 
herself — but much for others — While the desertion of 
so many former friends had given her a harsh lesson 
of self-dependance, she had yet met some unexpected 
kindness — and hope is so easily encouraged in youth. 
Her shyness, for that she found impossible to conq uer, 
seemed only natural, in one so young and lovely, and 
the sweetness inseparable from her temper secured 
universal civility. 

Their small store of luggage was soon placed in 
the cart, and a comfortable seat, as she hoped, formed 
for her mother — but here an unexpected difficulty 
arose. Mr§. Beaumont turned angrily away, declar- 
ing “ that it was quite impossible for her to ride in 
cart.” 

Fanny did not endeavour to convince, she only en- 
deavoured to persuade. 


180 


PRANCES BEAUMONT. 


Fortunately a dark cloud came to her assistance, 
and the fear of rain did more than all her entreaties — 
they took their seats, and Mrs. Beaumont’s sullen 
silence gradually yielded to her daughter’s influence 
— ^who would not be discouraged from conversation. 
She drew her mother’s attention to the delight of her^ 
little Edith, to the loveliness of the country around ; 
and at last Mrs. Beaumont passed her arm round her 
neck, and said ‘‘ You are a dear girl, and that is 
the truth of it, Fanny.” Tears swelled in the eyes 
of the affectionate child — those few kind words more 
than repaid her. 

The shadows had lengthed around, and only a few 
of the further cottage windows on the hill retained 
the crimson radiance of the setting sun, when they 
arrived at Sarah Wilmot’s. Fanny had induced her 
mother to get out before they came to the house. 
She had learned, while walking up one. of the hills, 
from the man who drove them, that there was a path 
through the field which led to a back gate in the gar- 
den, at the style therefore they alighted — all were 
glad to be in motion, the heaviness on the air had 
passed away, leaving only a refreshing coolness be- 
hind. 

The hedge, by whose side the foot-path wound, 
was covered with that rich growth of leaf and bloom 
which marks the delicious season when spring is deep- 
ening into summer, 

At every step Edith stopped, to gather some new 
treasure, till her little arms were filled with flowers'. 


FRANCES BEAUMONT. 


181 


while her large dark eyes turned to her companions 
with such an eloquent expression of delight, that the 
silence of her mouth was forgotten. The whole party 
felt the influence of the cheerful scene, and when they 
reached the small parlour, where the tea was prepar- 
ed, it was with a sensation of rest and hope to which 
they had long been strangers. Edith was quite ready 
to enjoy her bread and honey, and Mrs. Beaumont 
was pleased with the respectful civility of the neat 
old woman who received them. The room w'as small 
but delicately clean, and the honey-suckle that 
peeped in at the lattice was now at its sw'eetest, 
with the evening dew exhaling from its fragrant 
tendrils. 

They had been accustomed to so much WTetched- 
ness of late, to confusion, to civility, and to noise, 
that only the pleasant side of the contrast in their 
present situation was what struck them. The next 
day, however. Mrs. Beaumont discovered that their 
two rooms were wretchedly small, that she had no 
French rolls for breakfast, and that she could not see 
herself in the small square glass which hung beside 
the window, serving as the mirror. These were but 
small vexations, but we all know how small vexations 
become great ones when perpetually dwelt upon. 
From the first, Fanny began the habit of early rising. 
At first, Mrs. Beaumont complained bitterly of being 
herself disturbed, but when she found Fanny never 
undrew the curtains, and asked it as a favour, she be- 
came reconciled, and it may be doubted whether, af- 


182 


PRANCES BEAUMONT. 


ter a few mornings, she even heard the light step that 
was so carefully subdued. It was for her sake that 
her daughter was so anxious to get up. She soon 
found that the girl, employed by Sarah Wilmot, had 
more to do than she could get through, and was both 
awkward and stupid in getting through with it. 
Fanny resolved to take all the preparations for break- 
fast on herself. She soon found her way to the kitchen, 
at first to old Sarah’s great dismay, and not a little 
to her own embarrassment, but, after two or three 
failures, she succeeded to admiration. Henceforth 
her sister’s bread and milk, and her mother’s coffee, 
were made by herself. 

With my poor little Edith she had at first the 
greatest difficuty — she had been sadly spoilt. Her 
cruel misfortune had made it seem almost harsh ever 
to restrain her. The natural weakness of Mr. Beau- 
mont’s temper had given way to every possible bad 
habit, rather than be at the trouble of correction, and 
of late the unfortunate child had been neglected in 
every way. Edith did not choose to gel up, and 
Fanny neither liked to disturb her mother by any 
noise of contention, nor to make her sister rise merely 
by compulsion. But Edith, though violent in temper, 
had an affectionate heart, and where that exists it may 
alw^ays be worked upon to good. Very quick in her 
apprehensions, she soon saw that her sister w^as al- 
ways actively employed, and the desire arose to as- 
sist her. Fanny exhausted her ingenuity in contriv- 
ing a thousand ways of wanting her services. 


FRANCES BEAUMONT. 


183 


The pride of usefulness led, as it ever does, to the 
most beneficial results, and Edith became anxious to 
get up in the morning, that she might help her sister. 
An errand was next found to employ her. Hither- 
to the girl had fetched the milk of a morning : after 
going with her once, herself, to see that there was no 
danger that she could incur, Fanny in future sent her 
sister for it. The child was delighted with the office 
she had a pleasant walk across the field, and the far- 
mer’s wife, a thoroughly good-hearted woman thought 
that she could never make enough of the beautiful 
and afflicted child. Edith brought home the milk 
with due care, but she had almost always to run back 
again for some fruit, flowers, honey, or cake, which 
her new friends had offered her. 

Edith’s health and temper became equally improv- 
ed, and, even in the very heat of anger, a word or a 
look from her sister would soften her at once. But 
it was over Mrs. Beaumont that Fanny’s interest was 
the most remarkable and advantageous. Her mother 
could not devolve every difficulty upon her, as she 
did, without an unconcious respect for the strength of 
mind displayed by one so young; yet, thanks to 
Fanny’s sweetnesss, this was attended by none of 
that bitterness which too often attends such a change 
in the natural position of child and parent. But Mrs. 
Beaumont could not but see that her ease and her 
amusement were every thing to her affectionate 
daughter ; while Fanny had never loved her mother 
so well as now that she was her chief object, and her 


184 


FRANCES BEAUMONT. 


renewed cheerfulness the great reward of her con- 
stant exertions. Mrs. Beaumont had always been 
fond of work, it was now a great resource; and it 
soon became an amusement to teach Etith, whose 
quickness of apprehension was surprising. 

They had been some time resident in the village, 
when Fanny one evening was in the kitchen engaged 
in washing the tea-things, a task she had taken upon 
herself, when she observed that their hostess, instead 
of seizing with her usual delight the opportunity for 
a little chat, remained in what seemed a very discon- 
solate silence. Fanny saw that more than once the 
tears rise to the old woman^s eyes. She could not* 
see this without an attempt at consolation ; she took 
her hand, and asked her kindly what was the matter. 
The poor old creature was ready enough to talk of 
her troubles, she said that her son had been offered a 
situation as shopman in the next market town. 

“ It is a great thing for him. Miss, but — ” 

“ You do not like to part with him. But the dis- 
tance is not great, and it is for his good.” 

That is what I say to myself, and to him too, but 
he won't let me talk about it.” 

She then went on to explain that her son, for she 
herself could neither write nor read, had been in the 
habit of keeping the accounts of her little business, 
and that, without his assistance, it was impossible for 
her to get on at all. 

The thought instantly darted into Fanny’s head 
could she not supply his place? She had felt for 


FRANCES BEAUMONT. 


185 


some time that what her mother paid was a very in- 
adequate return for the trouble which, in spite of her 
personal efforts, they gave, and for the comfort which 
they enjoyedx Here was an opportunity of amply 
acquitting the obligation, she was a good accountant 
at school ; for, by reason of the necessity of order in 
their own arrangement, she had of late rather im- 
proved than . otherwise. Mrs. Wilmot’s shop was 
nominally to sell grocery, but it sold almost every- 
thing else : the old woman, whose activity and 
obligingness were pro ver vial, attended to her cus- 
tomers herself, and of an evening her son regulated 
the accounts of the day. The profits were sufficient 
to enable her to live in great comfort, and the decent 
education which she had contrived to afford her son 
had been already repaid by his dutiful affection, and 
assistance. But it was time now for him to be doing 
something more, he was growing up to manhood, and 
the present situation was one beyond his hopes. The 
last tea-cup was washed, and Fanny had taken her 
resolution ; she drew a stool close to the arm-chair, 
and communicated her project. “ I can cast up ac- 
counts very well, and your son can put me in the way 
of doing yours.’’ 

The old woman was at first silent from excess of 
astonishment. 

“A young lady like yourself!” was her almost 
inarticulate reply : but at length she began to com- 
prehend the possibility, and her surprise was next 
equalled by her gratitude. 


186 


FRANCES BEAUMONT. 


That very evening, Fanny took her lesson. The 
matter had even more difficulty than she expected, 
for Sarah’s own memorandums were hieroglyphics 
in chalk, that required practice indeed to decipher 
them. By dint of the most persevering attention she 
eonqiiered all the difficulties, and not one of the least 
was her mother’s objection, who saw in the employ a 
degradation. Fanny would only let her think of its 
utility and its kindness. 

We have alluded to Edith’s morning walk, to fetch 
milk, it led to far more important consequences. The 
farmer had the care of the only large house in the 
neighbourhood. It had the history belonging to so 
many. Its proprietors were living in a foreign land^ 
too embarrassed to return to their own, yet unable 
or unwilling to part with the noble old place which 
had been theirs so long. Edith first, and Fanny 
afterwards, accompanied the farmer’s wife on her 
periodical visits for airing the deserted rooms. There 
was a large library, and from its dusty shelves they 
soon obtained permission to take what they pleased, 
on condition that one set of books were returned to 
their places, before others were brought away. 

Here was indeed a treasure of delight and informa- 
tion. Fanny, who, like all active minds, had still 
many hours of the day unemployed, found here an 
invaluable and constant resource. She had often 
secretly regretted how all the advantages of her 
earlier education were being thrown away, but here 
was an opportunity for the cultivation of her mental 


FRAXCES BEAUMONT. 


187 


powers. Without suffering her new found enjoyment 
to interfere with her more active duties, she read a 
great deal, and one book, with a passion of hope and 
pleasure : it was the Abbe Sieye’s work on the in- 
struction of the deaf and dumb. It opened a field of 
expectation, on which she had before scarcely allowed 
herself to think. A little practice soon brought expe- 
rience to her aid, and in a few months she was 
astonished at her sister’s progress. 

Edith had a natural talent for drawing, and it was 
extraordinary how much this facilitated her progress : 
gradually she learnt to read ; then to write, and she 
acquired an extraordinary facility in sketching any 
object on the minute. A small slate which she car- 
ried constantly about with her became an easy means 
of communication with all, while to her mother and 
sister she could talk on her fingers with the greatest 
rapidity. All this however was the work of time, for 
nearly five years had passed since they first sought 
the distant and quiet village. 

They had been five years of content and employ- 
ment. Mrs. Beaumont’s health, though never strong, 
was better than it had ever been before, and her two 
children were pictures of youth and loveliness. But 
even the lowliest degree of content has its changes, 
and the smaller, even as the greater, portion in life 
has its trouble. The trifling sum which they had so 
husbanded was gradually drawing to a close : a new 
shop, opened at the other extremity of the village, 
fiad drawn away much of old Sarah’s custom, who 


188 


FRANCES BEAUMONT. 


was daily more desirous of going to reside with her 
son. His success in life had been the fitting reward 
of his industry and good conduct. It was fortunate 
for Mrs. Beaumont that, accustomed to depend wholly 
on Fanny, she took every thing for granted. When 
once used to their present mode of life, she supposed, 
as she had done of their former prosperity, that it 
would go on so always. She had no foresight. But 
Fanny’s anxiety increased every hour. For the first 
time she felt utterly depressed, she saw no possible 
means of earning even the most miserable pittance. 
She envied the labourers she saw working in the 
fields. Night after night, she buried her face in her 
sleepless pillow, lest her sister should perceive her 
tears. 

One day Edith had been to the old manor house, 
and was returning slowly up the steep hill which led 
to their village, when she was overtaken by a gen- 
tleman, who had for some minutes past been calling 
to her to learn his way. The light touch on her 
shoulder drew her attention in a minute. She startled, 
and, while a beautiful colour came into her face, fixed 
her dark eyes on his face, and perceived by the 
movement of his lips that he was speaking. She 
raised her graceful hands, but saw at once that he 
did not understand the rapid motion of her fingers. 
Then taking her slate, which hung on her arm, she 
wrote on it, “ I am deaf and dumb, but I can read 
what you write.” With a sweet smile she gave her 
touching confession to the stranger. The emotion 


FRANCES BEAUMONT. 


189 


with which he let the slate fall from his hand was 
beyond mere pity. With an expression of the ten- 
derest interest he gazed on the lovely countenance 
that, animated and intelligent, met his own. “ And 
is this sweet child so afflicted alsol^’ exclaimed he in 
a broken voice. 

He could not command himself enouglt to write 
the question he meant to ask, and Edith’s quick eye 
noted the changes of his face, and was naturally 
struck with the idea of indisposition ; she, happy in 
the cheerful affection of her mother and sister, knew 
not all the sympathy that she inspired. Again she 
took up her slate and wrote “ Are you ill, our house 
is very near, if your will rest there ?” Mr. Bennett, 
for such was the stranger’s name, had now composed 
himself, but his curiosity and a deeper feeling were 
alike excited by his companion, he therefore wrote 
down his thanks, saying “ that he had lost his way, 
and would be glad to follow his present guide.” 

The horse, whose bridle was thrown over his arm, 
now attracted Edith’s attention, and a conversation 
was soon commenced, and carried on, by the medium 
of the slate. They arrived at the litttle cottage, and 
Edith ran in to announce their unexpected visitor. 
A boy was soon found to hold Mr. Bennett’s horse, 
while he accepted Mrs. Beaumont’s offer of rest and 
refreshment. The conversation was interesting to 
both parties. It was so long since Mrs. Beaumont 
had had a visitor of any kind that she could not help 
enjoying the novelty, and Mr. Bennett was equally 


190 


FRANCES BEAUMONT. 


struck with her lady-like manner, and Fanny’s singu- 
lar loveliness. He asked many questions about Edith. 
‘‘You will pardon,” said he, “my dwelling on this 
painful subject, but I have two children afflicted in a 
similar manner.” 

This was too strong a bond of sympathy not to 
draw even strangers closely together, and when, after 
a visit of considerable length, he expressed his inten- 
tion of. taking whatever accommodation the little vil- 
lage inn could afford, Mrs. Beaumont begged him to 
renew his visit — and it was at last settled that he 
should take an early breakfast with them. 

It was late, very late, that night before Fanny closed 
her eyes, her head was full of a project that had 
suggested itself, but which cost her many a bittter 
plan to even attempt executing. She resolved every 
possible, we might say, impossible, chance of alleviat- 
ing their situation, and she could find but one, and 
that was to go out as governess. It was a dreary 
prospect, for it must separate her from a mother and 
sister whom she loved, as we love those to whom we 
are every thing in the world. 

How would Mrs. Beaumont bear up when separat- 
ed from the daughter who was her resource and 
support in every-thing ? How would poor Edith bear 
her loss, and yet on that poor afflicted child w^as her 
chief dependence. She had taught her to read, write, 
and draw, and Edith could now get on by herself ; 
not as she would have done with her sister always 
b)' her siue, but still enough for instruction and em- 


FRANCES BEAUMONT. 


191 


ployment. Moreover, there would always be a com- 
panion for her mother, one who, if she could not 
amuse her like Fanny, would yet always be at hand 
to do those little offices which were to Mrs. Beau- 
mont quite indispensable. 

The first red light of morning was stealing through 
the lattice, and Fanny raised herself on her arm to 
gaze on her sleeping sister. The long dark lash rested 
on the pale cheek which looked so placid and com- 
posed, while the w^arm light played round it, like a 
blessing. 

In moments of great anxiety there is a sort of na- 
tural superstition about the heart, which the reason 
rejects in cooler moments. 

Fanny, for an instant, watched that cheerful ray 
as if it were a good omen — She thought with in- 
creased confidence of Edith’s docility and intelli- 
gence, and hope grew strong within her that Heaven 
would protect a creature so innocent and so helpless. 

Fanny started from a short, but deep, slumber, as 
the sunshine came full on the window, and hurried 
up, to make the needful preparations. The room was 
prepared, and breakfast ready before their guest ar- 
rived, but even then, as Fanny had anticipated, her 
mother was not come down, and this gave her an op- 
portunity for the conversation she had planned with 
Mr. Bennett. He took a seat by the window, and 
entered at once into conversation. But the thoughts 
of his young hostess, after the first civilities had pass- 
ed were too busy to enable her to sustain her part, 


192 


FRANCES BEAUMONT. 


and her visitor at last become silent, evidently a little 
vexed at the failure of all his elfortsto encourage her 
— Suddenly making .a strong resolve to subdue her 
feelings, Fanny rose from the table where she had 
been seated, and, approaching Mr. Bennett, said in a 
faltering voice “ Sir, I am going to ask a favour, it 
will not be very much trouble, and I have not a friend 
in the world, unless I can make one of a stranger, 
you seem very kind but here her utterance failed, 
and the tears came so fast to her eyes that she could 
no longer check them, she was soon re-assured by the 
extreme kindness of Mr. Bennett’s manner, and in a 
few words explained their unfortunate circumstances, 
and her own wish to obtain a situation as governess. 

“ We have lost sight,” continued she, “of all our 
former friends, but a little enquiry will satisfy you of 
the truth of my story, and the Lady who educated me 
at Brighton would, I am sure, speake kindly of me.” 

“ That you can obtain such a situation,” replied 
Mr. Bennett, “ there is no doubt, and as my own circle 
is large, I feel sure that I can serve you.” 

God bless you,” exclaimed the grateful girl, 
when, hearing the door open of Mrs. Beaumont’s room, 
she hastily added, “ say nothing of my plan to my 
mother. It will be bard enough to bear when it suc- 
ceeds, let me spare her all unhappyness beforehand.” 

Mr. Bennett had only time to look a reply, when Mrs. 
Beaumont entered the little parlour. During break- 
fast, Mr. Bennett had<ftmple time to admire the self- 
control which Fanny had so early learnt to practise. 


FRANCES BEAUMONT* 


193 


Her young heart was swelling with anxiety, and even 
llien she was anticipating all the bitterness of parting, 
yet she suppressed all outward sign of what she felt, 
she was even more attentive than usual to the cour- 
tisies of the breakfast table ; and, if a little silent, she 
nevertheless answered the questions addressed to her 
by Mr. Bennett with equal intelligence and grace. 
The meal was soon dispatched, for their guest was in 
haste, and both Fanny and Edith accompanied him till 
actually in the direct line of his route. 

During the walk, Mr. Bennett put many questions, 
and ended by assuring Fanny tha she should soon 
hear from him, and he hoped satisfactorily. Fanny 
listened to the sounds of his horse’s feet, as he gallop- 
ed down the green lane, with mingled pain and plea- 
sure: it seemed as if they were the first notes of se- 
paration between herself and all she loved in the 
world; yet the idea of the aid she might thereby 
give supported her, and the small domestic troubles 
which daily increased distracted her attention: she 
had not courage to mention her plan to her mother, 
but, aware how much in future must depend on her 
sister, she resolved on telling her. Child as she 
was, Edith proved worthy of the care that had 
been bestowed upon her, and the confidence now re- 
posed. 

They were taking their favourite walk in a small 
oak coppice near, when Fanny called her attention 
from the wild flowers, which she was gathering, and 
told her of their future plans. At first it was too 

R 


194 


FRANCES BEAUMONT. 


much for Edith’s philosophy, she listened in pale dis- 
may, and then, dashing herself down on the grass, 
gave way to a passionate burst of crying; all Fanny 
could do was to raise her head, and cry too. 

I am setting you a bad example,” at last ex 
claimed the elder sister, and Edith, seeing that her 
lips moved, remained with her eyes fixed on her face, 
and unclasping her hands, traced a few words hastily 
on the slate that hung at her wrist : ‘^My sister, I shall 
die, and so will Mamma, if you leave us.” Fanny 
clasped the little affectionate creature in her arms, and, 
taking her hand, walked towards the open fields. 
The fresh air, the glad open sunshine revived her, she 
relied on the care of Heaven which spread so brightly 
over all around, she then explained to her sister the 
necessity of their situation, the absolute necessity of 
some support, and perhaps expressed a little more 
hope than she really felt of everything turning out 
for the best. “ You must,” said she, ‘‘take my place 
with my mother, you must dress her, and be house- 
keeper and every-thing, I know I can trust my little 
Edith.” 

The child swallowed down her tears, and turned, 
to her sister with a stedfast, earnest look, “ Let me 
dress Mamma to-morrow,” asked she, and the slight 
fingers were tolerably steady while asking. 

The next morning Mrs. Beaumont was dowm rath- 
er earlier than usual, and found Fanny, as had been, 
settled, very busy over her work. “ I shall dismiss you 


FRAXCES BEAUMOXT. 


199 


from my service,” said she smiling, for Edith is so 
handy, and I know how much there is to do.” 

‘‘I shall grow jealous,” replied Fanny, forcing a 
laugh, and from that time Edith took her place. This 
was a great point gained, for Mrs. Beaumont required 
many little personal services, which Fanny had fear- 
ed her sister with her infirmity, would be incapable 
of rendering. A fortnight of anxious expectation 
past by: the fortnight became three weeks, and Fan- 
ny found herself at the end of their carefully hoarded 
pittance, and Mrs. Beaumont had, from finding Sarah 
crying in the garden, and questioning her, learnt the 
old woman's wish to give up the shop and cottage. 
She hurried to the parlor where she had left Fanny 
at work, and found the poor girl worn out both in 
mind and body, crying bitterly. This was too much 
for Mrs. Beaumont, and Fanny was roused from her 
own painful indulgence, by seeing her mother in strong 
hysterics. Caresses and entreaties at length restored 
her, and Fanny took the opportunity of telling what 
her own hopes were. This seemed only making mat- 
ters worse: “If you leave, what will become of us?” 
said her mother wudnging her hands. 

‘‘ If I stay, we shall starve ; my obtaining a situa- 
tion as a governess is our only resource against ab- 
solute want,” replied Fanny gently, but firmly. — 
‘‘Dearest mother, do not deny me the happiness of 
working for you. I hope our separation will not be 
long, and Edith will always be with you.” 

“ Oh my child, how I shall miss you,” and again 


196 


FRANCES BEAUMONT. 


Mrs. Beaumont gave way to her tears. Gradually 
she became more composed, and Fanny thenceforth 
made her approaching departure the constant subject 
of discourse. When once Mrs. Beaumont considered 
it as inevitable, she grew even anxious about it, and, 
for the next three days, she harrassed both Fanny 
and herself with misgivings as to Mr. Bennett’s for- 
getfulness. The fourth evening came and still no 
letter; when, just as Mrs. Beaumont w^as saying 
‘‘Ah Fanny, it is of no use hoping, nobody cares for 
us now,” a parcel was brought in addressed to her. 
It was opened with trembling eagerness, and, among 
other things, Fanny saw a letter inscribed to herself. 
The contents ran thus : 

“ My dear young F riend, 

“ My long silence, occasioned by severe illness, 
has I fear led you to suppose that I had forgotten the 
interest that T had expressed in your situation : as 
soon as you mentioned what your wishes for the fu- 
ture were, a plan occurred to me which I trusted 
might prove mutually agreeable. Mrs. Bennett agrees 
with myself in thinking our little girls will be most 
fortunate if placed under your care. She has herself 
written to you. Will you permit me to enclose the 
accompanying trifle for the expenses of your journey ? 

“ With every expression of esteem and respect, 

“ I remain your sincere friend, 

“ Robert Bennett.” 

The hank note for twenty pounds, aud the letter, 


FRANCES BEAUMONT. 


197 


dropped from her hand, in an agony of mute thank- 
fulness — it was far beyond her hopes, and she felt as 
if regret would be ingratitude to Providence. 

Edith had watched every turn of her face, while 
Mrs. Beaumont was employed in examining the con- 
tents of the parcel. 

She caught up the letter, read it, and grew deadly 
pale, the tears rose in her eyes, but she did not shed 
them, she only drew close to Fanny, and kissed her, 
as much as to say, ** You see you may trust me.” 
Fanny commanded her voice sufficiently to read the 
letter aloud, and in the relief from the fear of destitu- 
tion, Mrs. Baumont bore the idea of parting with her 
.daughter better than could have been expected. The 
parcel itself too distracted her attention. 

Its arrival was an event in a life so monotonous as 
their’s. It contained a handsome shawl for herself, 
brown merino dresses for the two girls, some various 
silks and worsteds, which showed that the kind donor 
had noted Mrs. Beaumont’s own employ, a variety of 
books, a box of colors, pencils, and a kind note to 
Edith. 

The kindness was felt even more than the service. 
There was also another note addressed to Miss Beau- 
mont, in a lady’s hand. She broke the pale lilac seal 
and read the contents. 

“ Mrs. Bennett informs Miss Beaumont that, in 
consequence of Mrs. Cameron’s recommendation, she 
is willing to give her a trial, though she thinks Miss 
B. very young. 

R 2 


198 


FRANCES BEAUMONT. 


“ Mrs. Bennett begs no time may be lost, as she is 
going to Brighton and wants the children settled first. 
She will give Miss B. the same salary as her prede- 
cessor, a hundred guineas, though she must say it is a 
large sum for such a young person : but Mrs. Came- 
ron says that Miss Beaumont is highly accomplished, 
hopes that they have not been lost in the country. — 
Will Miss Beaumont write to fix what day she will 
arrive, as the housekeeper is to meet her.” 

It was not the utter want of elegance in this even 
unlady-like note, but it was its want of any thing like 
encouragement. At that moment Fanny felt the full 
bitterness of the task she had undertaken. She would 
not think of this, she turned at once to the blessing of 
being able to support her mother, and just read 
enough of the note to fix attention on the amount of 
the salary, and the necessity of her immediate depar- 
ture. Her plan had been for sometime arranged in 
her own mind, and no obstacles intervened. 

It was agreed that Mrs. Beaumont and Edith were 
to live at the farm-house we had before mentioned, 
and Fanny had the satisfaction of seeing them com- 
fortably settled. 

“ I know,” said Edith, (we use the expression say, 
to avoid perpetual recurrence to her methods of ex- 
pression, which were either by talking on her fingers, 
or writing on her slate :) “ that you are afraid Mam- 
ma will miss you, and so she must, but it shall not be for 
want of care. Dearest sister, I will do just as if you 
were here with me, and as Mr. Bennett says I may 


FRANCES BEAUMONT. 


199 


always write under cover to him, I will tell you every 
thing I do. Fanny at that moment had less resolution 
than even her little sister, and the child went on : 

“ I will keep a journal and send you every w'eek. 
My darling Fanny, I know how good you have been 
God will bless us both for your sake.” 

With what lingering steps that evening did they 
wander round “ the old familiar places !” The old 
hedge, now filled with honeysuckle, the bank beneath 
the ash tree, where a few late violets yet lingered, 
the clear and dancing brook, where they had so often 
gathered -water-cresses ; every object had now that 
charm which invests even the commonest thing when 
seen for the last time. 

The next day, it was fortunate that all w^as hurry 
and confusion, there was only just time for Fanny to 
get her few packages ready, and to be at the end of 
the green lane just as the coach was sweeping down 
the hill in the distance. Such a long journey, and by 
herself too, was an awful thing to any girl, especially 
to one who had lived in such complete seclusion and 
fear, mixed with the sorrow that made Fanny’s voice 
at parting quite inarticulate. Neither Mrs. Beaumont 
nor Edith could restrain their tears, and even the 
farmer’s wife who accompanied them cried for sym- 
pathy. Slowly they returned home, to miss Fanny at 
every turn. 

The room did not seem the same, her place was 
vacant. The next morning Edith was up with the 
lark, and stole from the bed as softly as the bird from 


200 


PRANCES BEAUMONT. 


its nest, so fearful was she of disturbing her mother^ 
and of not having every thing nicely prepared. 

‘‘Lord love the poor little thing,’’ said their new 
hostess as she watched her bring in the flowers and 
water-cresses with which she laid out the breakfast 
table, and then make the coffee with a skill which 
many a London drawing room might have envied. 

“ What a handy child it is, but we must help all 
we can, and without seeming to do it.” 

But a letter from Edith to her sister will give exact 
description of how they passed their time. 

“ It is but a week, for I have counted every day, 
since I saw the coach take you away, my dearest 
Fanny, but it has been a very long week. Every- 
thing makes us miss you — yesterday we walked past 
old Sarah’s shop. It is shut up, and the sight made 
Mamma cry so, that she went to bed quite ill. I 
shall take care not to walk that way again except by 
myself. 

“ I will tell you just how a day passes. I get up 
at seven, go as usual to see the cows milked, and 
drink my own little cup-ful. I then go home, get the 
breakfast ready for Mamma, and read till she comes, 
and then we sit down together ; after the breakfast 
things are washed and put away, we go and walk 
for an hour before the sun is on the lane. Then 
Mamma and I work in the window, and she reads, 
till it is time to lay the cloth for dinner. After that 
she lies down, and I go into the arbour in the garden, 
where there is now a wooden table. For the next 


FRANCES BEAUMONT. 


201 


hour I am trying to teach Hannah, and Mary, to 
write and count, but they don’t learn very fast. To 
be sure, you will say that they have not had time. 
Mary too is teaching me to plait straw, and I like 
doing it very much. 

“ Then I get the tea ready, and, Mamma and I 
take another walk, but I walk more than she does. 

“ Then I read till bed-time, or talk to Mamma, but 
I am afraid she misses your reading aloud to her. 

Ah, dear Fanny, I wish we were as rich as we 
have been ! but there are many poor children starving, 
and, if I could see you, I should be quite happy. 
Mamma says I may give her love, but she is going 
to write the last page herself. Good bye dear, dear, 
Fanny, 

“ Your affectionate sister, 

“ Edith Beaumont.” 

In the mean time, Fanny proceeded on her long 
and cheerless journey, without however meeting the 
slightest adventure. 

Her own sweet and gentle manner everywhere 
w'on her civility, and, after two very fatiguing days, 
she arrived safely in London, wher^ the house-keeper 
was waiting to meet her. She was a quiet, civil 
person, very careful of her young charge, and a 
coach, which was soon procured, conveyed them to 
Mr. Bennett’s house in Harley street. She was 
shown at once to her own room, but had scarcely 
time for either rest or refreshment before she was 
summoned to tea. 


20 ^ 


FRAXCES BEAUMONT. 


With a beating heart and a faltering step, she en- 
tered the magnificent drawing-room, where every 
thing swam before her eyes. She was a little re- 
assured by Mr. Bennett coming kindly forward, and 
taking her hand : he led her to a lady who was 
thrown back in a large arm chair. “ This, my dear, 
is Miss Beaumont, of whom I have had so much plea- 
sure in talking to you.” 

Mrs. Bennett rather stared than looked at the new 
comer : apparently the survey was any thing but 
satisfactory, for, in a very peevish tone, she exclaimed 
— rather to her husband than to Fanny — 

‘‘ Why do you keep her standing — there. Miss — 
]\!iss, what is your name, is a chair close by.” Well 
for Fanny was it that the chair did stand close by, 
for she almost sank upon it, appalled at her reception. 

A dead silence prevailed for some minutes, broken 
by Mrs. Bennett’s asking her husband some trifling 
question, to which he made no reply. Silence again 
prevailed, and to Miss Beaumont’s great relief, Mrs. 
Bennett addressed her very civilly, as to whether she 
had not found her journey fatiguing — ‘‘ You will not 
see your pupils till to-morrow, they are in bed, and 
glad enough everybody is when they are there.” 

The carriage was announced, but while putting on 
her cloak, Mrs. Bennett begged that Fanny would 
ring for any thing she wanted. 

“ Indeed, my dear, you must make yourself quite 
at home.” 

Mr. Bennett wished her a cordial good night, and 


FRAXCES BEAUMONT. 


203 


Fanny heard the street door close before she had re- 
covered her surprise at the change in the lady’s 
manner. 

It was a new and weary lesson that Fanny had to 
learn in the experience of Mrs. Bennett’s temper. 
A vain, weak, and selfish woman, every fault had 
increased with an uninterrupted course of worldly 
prosperity, and she had no kindliness, no natural 
generosity to counteract her violent and over-bearing 
disposition. 

It required all her husband’s calm, and even severe, 
good sense to obtain any influence; but she feared 
him, she knew that it was in his power to curtail her 
enjoyments, and if selfishness gave way to petulance 
at first, the same selfishness soon controlled it. 

She saw that her husband was justly displeased at 
her reception of the friendless and interesting girl 
whose situation would have called forth kindness 
from almost any one else, she felt no pity for Fanny, 
but she thought that Mr. Bennett might decline ful- 
filling their evening engagement; and, having vented 
her spleen at seeing her so very lovely, thought that 
some show of politeness was necessary to propitiate 
her husband. 

It was with a heavy heart that Fanny rose the 
next morning. The dull parapet, the gloomy roofs 
of the houses, was any thing but a cheering specta- 
cle. She missed the glad sunshine, the buoyant 
morning air. that was wont to come in from the open 
casement of their little cottage. The noise, to which 


m 


FRANCES BEAUMONT. 


she had been so long unaccustomed, quite bewildered 
her, and the gloom seemed infectious. She soon 
dressed, and a servant came to conduct her to the 
school-room, where so much of her future life was 
to be passed. It was a large dull room, the bars 
before the window giving it almost the look of a 
prison, and a large iron fender destroying even the 
cheerfulness of the fire. By that fire the two children 
were seated, who slowly turned round their dull and 
sullen faces. Fanny went up to them, and tried to 
take a hand of each. They started back, making 
an inarticulate and frightful sound ; the one pushed 
against the other, who immediately struck her sister, 
and a complete battle ensued. The servant parted 
them, and, turning to Miss Beaumont, said, They 
are little furies, Miss, I shall be glad enough to have 
done with them.’^ 

Breakfast was now brought, and the two children 
began to eat ravenously, and without the least regard 
even to decency. F anny vainly endeavoured to make 
them imitate her movements, the least interference 
only produced the same discordant mutter, and at- 
tempts at blows : after the meal was over, they 
appeared to have no idea of either employment or 
amusement, excepting scrambling amid a profusion 
of broken toys, or climbing up to look out of the 
window. At last however Fanny began to draw 
figures on a sheet of paper; this attracted their atten* 
tion, the one pushed the other, but Matilda the eldest, 
obtained the mastery, and Susan was elbowed from 


TRANCES BEAUMONT. 


205 


ihe table. Fanny seized the opportunity of giving 
her first lesson in obedience. She showed the figures 
to Susan, and, after a little while, let her show them 
to Matilda. She next made them come to the table 
quietly together, and finished by dividing the draw- 
ings between them. At one o^clock they were sum- 
moned to Mrs. Bennett’s dressing-room, who received 
the unfortunate children with ill-disguised disgust; 
and Miss Beaumont with coldness. 

“ I suppose,” said she, half yawning, you won’t 
want much in the school-room ; indeed I don’t know 
what you are to teach ; you can give me a list of 
anything you want ; and I suppose Mr. Bennett will 
choose you to have it.” After this ungracious inter- 
view they went out for their walk, a service of no 
small difficulty, as the children were not under the 
least control. They then [returned, and the afternoon 
passed in much the same way as the morning. 

Fanny was indeed thankful when eight o’clock 
came, and the children went to bed. Sad, wearied 
out both in body and mind, she sat down by the fire, 
and was startled from her gloomy reverie by the 
servant bringing in the tray with her supper. It was 
the first solitary meal she had ever taken, and now it 
departed untouched. Such for the two succeeding 
years was the daily journal of Fanny Beaumont’s life. 
Now afid then Mr. Bennett would send to ask her to 
join their circle, but Mrs. Bennett’s ill humor was so 
visible and so sure to lead to petty annoyance the fol- 
lowing day, that Fanny almost always excused her- 


200 


FRANCES BEAUMONT. 


self. Such for two years was the dull and lonely life, 
of a girl singularly lovely and accomplished ; she had 
the comfort of supporting her mother, but that com- 
fort was her only one. The children who were con- 
fided to her care were perfectly untractable, the com- 
monest domestic, who was kind, and honest, would 
have done all that she could do, she felt that her en- 
ergies and talents were alike wasted, she had none of 
the pleasures of youth, and but little hope for the 
future. 

One morning, while making the daily visit to Mrs. 
Bennett’s dressing-room, that lady said in a tone of 
more than usual civility, ‘‘ I should be much obliged. 
Miss Beaumont, by your giving up your room next 
week. The heiress. Miss Elphinstone is coming to 
stay with us, and her maid must have a room with a 
fire-place.” Fanny of course assented, but it was with 
a bitter feeling of comparison. 

The name of Elphinstone called up her school-days, 
and she could not but contrast her present and for- 
mer situation. Then she was loved, caressed, the 
favourite of her own happy little circle — now she was 
dependant and lonely and forgotten. 

The arrival of Miss Elphinstone w’as obviously an 
event in the Harley Street household. 

All sorts of preparations were made, and Fanny 
was surprised one morning by a request from Mrs. 
Bennett to come to her in the dressing room. She 
found that it was to write out the cards of an invita- 
tion for a splendid ball to be given dn honour of the 


PRANCES BEAUMONT. 


207 


visitor. The important day of the heiress’s arrival at 
last came, the whole house in a commotion, for Mrs. 
Bennett, like all vulgar minded people, delighted in 
bustle. 

Fanny soon heard enough from the maid who at- 
tended the children to be nearly sure that the visitor 
was the little Emeline who had been her pet at 
school, and her heart warmed at the thought of see- 
ing a friend. But the hope was vain, for Miss Elphin- 
stone never came near her. A week passed, and it 
was now the night of the ball, and the courted and 
flattered heiress had never found a single moment to 
bestow on her former kind friend. Fanny felt the 
neglect bitterly, a single affectionate word would have 
been such a happiness to one so lonely. 

It was late, and she sat down by the heavy iron 
fender in the school-room. All around her was life 
and gaiety, she could hear the perpetual rattle of the 
carriages, and the prolonged knocks at the door, while 
nearer still came the sound of music. She could dis- 
tinguish a favourite waltz, it was the last that she had 
ever danced, she had seen little Emeline Elphinstone 
dance it that very day which had ended so unfortunate- 
ly to herself. 

should have come to see her,” thought Fanny; 
and she felt the neglect of her former protege more 
keenly than all the privations which she was now en- 
during. 

Yet it was a hard trial for any young girl, to sit 
by herself in that gloomy school room, hearing the 


208 


FRANCES BEAUMONT, 


gaiety so near! poor Fanny could not help conjuring 
up the scene to herself, the light, the flowers, and the 
dancers. 

With the over sensitiveness of a singularly affec- 
tionate heart, it seemed as if the natur al regret were 
selfish. She would not repine at any sacrifice made 
for the sake of her mother and sister. Edow long it 
was since they had met ! “Ah,” exclaimed Fanny 

“ if we could but have lived on in our little cottage, 
how happy we should have been. My own little 
Edith, when shall I see you again I” The tears that 
had been swellowed down with affectionate shame, 
now rose into her eyes, and Fanny scarcely heard 
the carriages or the music, while the image of her 
darling sister rose before her; she was roused from 
her reverie by the school-room door, and to her as- 
tonishnient saw a young lady enter bearing a light in 
her hand. She was drestin white satin which show- 
ed to advantage her tail and elegant figure, while a 
wreath of scarlet flowers contrasted the rich folds of 
her thick black hair. A chain of gold was round her 
neck, from which hung a diamond cross, and there 
was something so brilliant about her whole appear- 
ance that Fanny, though she rose, remained silent. 
She almost expected the bright apparition to vanish. 

“ I beg your pardon for this intrusion,” said the 
unexpected visitor, “ but I wanted my wreath altered, 
for it hurts my head. I could make no one hear in 
my own room, and set off in search of my maid : I 


FRANCES BEAUMONT. 


209 


lost tny way, and, seeing a light, ventured to come 
in.” 

“ Can 1 be of any use !” said Fanny. 

“ Why, to own the truth, I shall be thankfull for any 
assistance,” and as she went to sit down, she placed 
her candle on the table, so that the light fell full on 
Fanny’s face: the stranger started from her seat. 

No, impossible, yes it is Fanny, Fanny Beaumont, 
oh, I know it is herself,” and, forgetting wreath and 
every thing else, she flung her arms round her neck, 
and almost sobbed out incoherent expressions of joy 
and surprise. 

Fanny was too amazed for words, and her com- 
panion was the first to recover herself. “ Do you not 
recollect me,” asked she half crying, half laughing, 

Emeline Elphinstone ?” 

Emeline, my little Emeline,” exclaimed Fanny : 
she could not, in the tall, graceful, and very handsome 
girl who stood before her, find a single trace of the 
little girl whom she had once petted. 

“ Why I am taller than you now,” said the other, 
enjoying her surprise. “ Oh, how I have tried to find 
you out, since I came from France, but I never could 
discover any thing about you : only think of that 
odious Mrs. Bennett never naming you. What does 
she keep you shut up here for?” 

You did not know then that I was governess to the 
children.” 

"Governess!” cried Miss Elphinstone; "do you 
s 2 


210 


FRANCES BEAUMONT. 


think that I should have been here a week without 
seeing you if I had had the most remote idea of it. 1 
heard that there were two children heavily afflicted, 
and of course avoided any enquiry. Ah, I see bow 
it is, you are too pretty.” 

Fanny blushed, and added, “ But I must not keep 
you here, you will be missed.” 

“Very true,” replied the other, “and, as my 
father's friend, I would not affront Mr. Bennett : but 
I have so much to say to you. Do you mind sitting 
upl Come with me to my room, I must leave you 
there ; I shall say good night as soon as I can, down 
stairs, and you can, in the meantime, take a nap on 
the sofa.” 

“ But Mrs. Bennett will be angry.” 

“ I do not care for the unreasonable anger of any 
one. Besides she won’t be angry with me, so come ; 
it is only reversing old times. I used to mind you, 
and now you must mind me.” 

Miss Elphinstone waited no further denial, but hur- 
ried her prize off to her own apartment. It was a 
little pretty room fitted up with every possible luxury, 
trinkets, toys, books and flowers were scattered in 
every direction. 

She drew an arm chair to the Are, threw a laro-e 

o 

Indian shawl round Fanny, placed a table near: 
^‘You used to like reading,” said she, pointing to the 
volumes upon it. “ Now, be a good child, and wait 
patiently till I return, which shall be as soon as pos^ 


Frances beaumont. 21 1 

sible. Really I must now hurry off, Mrs. Bennett, 
else, will insist that I have run away.” 

“ But your wreath, let me alter it,” said Fanny. 

“ I had forgotten all about it,” replied the other, 
and stooping dowm, she had it loosened. “It is not 
the first time that you have dressed me,” said Emeline, 
with a grateful and affectionate look. The door closed 
after her, and Fanny looked round the small luxurious 
apartment with a feeling of bewilderment. The last 
half hour seemed like a dream. She had again heard 
kind words, again been treated wdth affection. It 
was not much, but her heart bounded with enjoy- 
ment. 

Two hours passed rapidly away, and soon after 
Miss Elphinstone appeared, accompanied by her maid 
bringing in a tray of refreshments : 

“ You see, I have taken care you shall not be star- 
ved. Now, take a sandwich and some jelly, while 
Fanchette undresses me wdth all possible rapidity.” 

The two friends w^ere soon seated over the fire, and 
each began their mutual history. Miss Elphinstone’s 
had been one unbroken course of prosperity. Her 
father had come to Europe to recover his health, she 
had joined him within six months of Fanny’s leaving 
school in the south of France. There and at Paris 
she had remained, till the last twelve-month. “ Ever 
since we came to England — I can safely say, you 
have never been out of my head a day. I have asked 
in every quarter I could discover. Little did I think 
when I came so reluctantly on this visit, that here 1 


212 


rRANCES BEAUMONT. 


was to find you.” It was now so late that they were 
obliged to separate, but as Fanny rose to go, Miss 
Elphinslonc said. 

You had better think of packing up, for I tell you 
fairly — I leave here to-morrow, and you must accom- 
pany me. Now do not even look hesitation. Re- 
member, I am such a spoiled child now that I will 
have my own way. Henceforth you are my sister,” 
and, with a little gentle violence, she half pushed 
Fanny out of the room, to prevent an answer. 

Miss Elphinstone soon fell asleep, full of pity and 
wonder at all her former friend had gone through, 
and equally full of resolutions to make her in future as 
happy and comfortable as possible. 

Fanny^s meditations were of a less satisfactory or- 
der. She was not only older in years, but far older 
in experience than her friend ; she felt as if to accept 
her offer would be to take advantage of the romance 
of youthful generosity. Moreover, Miss Elphinstone 
had a parent to consult, and he might not approve of 
her incurring the expense. “ I have no right to be 
dependant, while by my own exertions I can support 
myself.” 

The next morning had finished the little instruction 
she could give the children, when Miss Elphinstone 
entered the school-room. 

“ You see, I have found my way again,” said she. 
** Mrs. Bennett is now dressing, and I have sent a note 
to beg that you may breakfast with me.” 

The children now attracted her attention, and for 


FRANCES BEAUMONT. 


213 


a moment she paused with the shock ; their melan- 
choly and idiotic look and incoherent murmurs had 
with her the full force of novelty. Recovering her* 
self she tried to notice them, but it was in vain, and 
in a few minutes the servant returned to say, “ That 
Miss Elphinstone was to do as she pleased about 
breakfasting in her dressing-room, but that Miss Beau- 
mont could not possibly leave the children.” 

“ Then I will breakfast here,” cried Emeline. — 
“ My poor Fanny, and it is in the power of such a wo- 
man, and with such children that you have past the 
last two years !” 

They now began talking of their future plans, and 
Fanny was scarcely prepared for the excessive dis- 
appointment which her refusal excited. Emeline had 
been so accustomed to have her wishes the study of 
all around that she could scarcely comprehend Fan- 
ny^s supposing that there could be an objection raised 
to their gratification. 

“ I tell you what you may do for me,” said Fanny 
at last. I feel I can do no more here than a ser- 
vant could do; 1 will ask you to. aid mein procuring 
another situation. Could I benefit these children, I 
own Mr. Bennett’s kindness would give him a para- 
mount claim upon my exertions, but I cannot ; they 
are incapable of even attachment.” 

Say no more,” interrupted Miss Elphinstone, 
‘‘ your accomplishments will secure any situation.. 
Just let me get home, and we will see what can be 
done.” 


214 


FRANCES BEAUMONT. 


Again the servant entered, to say that Mrs. Ben- 
nett had been waiting in the drawing-room above an 
hour for Miss Elphinstone. The friends affectionately 
embraced, and parted hastily ; while Fanny sat down, 
and began to think over the events of the morning. 
She felt that she had done rightly, and, while her 
heart warmed at the thought of Emeline’s kindness, 
she could not endure the idea of dependence on her 
generosity — a generosity, too, unsanctioned by her 
father. Still a person of Mr. Elphinstone’s position in 
society might serve her in many ways. She was 
justified in desiring to change her situation, her health, 
her spirits, were rapidly giving way. Surely she 
might obtain a situation where she would be treated 
with something like kindness, and where the children 
might do some credit to her care. Her first step was 
to acquaint Mr. Bennett with her intentions, indeed 
she thought it but due to him to ask his consent ; and 
she at once sat down and asked an interview before 
he went out the following morning. The next day 
she received a message to say he was waiting in the 
library. In as few words as possible, she stated her 
intentions, adding that even now she should consider 
it a duty to consider his wishes if he, under the cir- 
cumstances, wished her to remain. 

Mr. Bennett remained silent a few moments, he 
was grieved that his children should lose one so kind 
and so trust-worthy, but he had long felt for the isolat- 
ed and melancholy situation of a young creature shut 
up in such dreary seclusion. He saw clearly that his 


FRANCES BEAUMONT. 


215 


wife would enter into none of his kindly plans for 
Fanny’s advantage, and that to attempt them might 
only expose her to annoyance : and he was too just 
a man to throw an obstacle in the way of whatever 
might be for her benefit. He therefore contented 
himself with expressing his gratitude for her devotion 
to the children, his perfect satisfaction with her en- 
deavours, and that if ever she wanted a friend, she 
had a firm one in himself. Fanny could not thank 
him, and when she at length attempted to falter out a 
few grateful words, he interrupted her, ‘‘You have 
nothing to thank me for, I wish 1 had had more in 
my power.” 

The only comment Mrs. Bennett made was “ that 
she supposed Miss Beaumont was going to turn toad- 
eater to the heiress, but that of course, she could not 
go till some one else was found to take care of the 
children.” 

About this she was not long in suspense, for, during 
the course of the w^eek, Mr. Bennett found a motherly 
and very respectable woman, whom he himself in- 
troduced to Miss Beaumont, asking her to instruct 
the new comer in the best method of managing the 
children. Fanny soon saw that they were in excel- 
lent, hands; the new attendant was kind, steady, and 
had known trouble enough to make her sympathize 
with misfortune in any shape. 

But a new subject of uneasiness arose for Fanny; 
day after day past by, and she heard nothing of Miss 
Elphinstone. Was it possible that all she had said 


216 


TRANCES BEAUMONT. 


was but the hasty impulse of the moment — could she 
have forgotten her ? 

A fortnight had elapsed, a fortnight of constant suf- 
fering. 

Suspense was too painful to bear, and Fanny, for 
the first time, began to fear the appro^^h of illness. 
She was sitting with a feverish head-ache, when a 
letter was brought : her hand trembled to such ade- 
gree that she could scarcely open it, at length she 
read as follows : 

“ Dearest Fanny, 

“You never can forgive me — the en- 
closed letter ought to have been sent the very day 
after I left Harley Street. I found it in my *desk 
when I arrived from a journey into the country which 
we have been taking. What you have thought I can- 
not bear to fancy — I come for you to-morrow at one 
o’clock. — I am sure all our plans will be arranged to 
our mutual satisfaction. 

“ Your gratefully 

“ affectionate 
“Emeline.” 

A letter in a gentleman’s hand- waiting w as enclos- 
ed, and Fanny read, though with tearful eyes, the 
contents : 

“My dear young Friend, 

“ My spoilt Emeline has repeated her 
conversation with you yesterday ; she is quite sur- 
prised that any body can refuse her anything, and so 
am I. Come to us you must. It would be unkind- 


FRANCES BEAUMONT. 


217 


ness, and not independence, to refuse that affection 
which you yourself lavished on a little friendless girl. 
We give you a week to make what arrangements 
you think proper with Mr. and Mrs. Bennett, and 
then we come to claim you. 

“ Your affectionate, 
and obliged 

Charles Elphinstone.” 

With what fervent gratitude to Heaven Fanny 
went to sleep that night ! The next day Miss Elphin- 
stone was even before her time. Her father accom- 
panied her, one of those kind and warm-hearted 
people, whose frank and yet polished manner sets you 
at ease at once. 

With a cold farewell from Mrs. Bennett, whose 
temper could scarcely restrain itself, and a most kind 
one from Mr. Bennett, Fanny left their house full of 
hope and thankfulness. Miss Elphinstone, who was 
in the gayest spirits, laughed and talked nearly the 
whole way to Richmond, and Fanny’s gaiety rose too 
under their influence. The drive too was delightful, 
it was one of those bright sunny days of an early 
spring, which impart their own genial softness. The 
carriage turned into a sheltered lane, whose hedges 
were already begining to put forth that pure yellow 
green which promises so much, and the starry clusters 
of the primroses were smiling on either side. 

They stopped at a very pretty little cottage, and 
Miss Elphinstone scarcely waited for the door to open 
before she led Fanny in. “ I forgot to tell you that 

T 


218 


FRANCES BEAUMONT. 


you were coming home,’’ said her companion, for the 
next moment she was kneeling at her mother’s feet, 
and Edith’s arms were about her neckl Tears, 
caresses, and blessings, filled up the first quarter of an 
hour; when a young man, who had hitherto been 
concealed in the window-seat, came forward, and 
claimed a little notice. 

Fanny at once recognised her cousin George Beau- 
mont. He had discovered his relations that very 
morning, through a chance interview on business 
with Mr. Elphinstone. 

The cottage where Mrs. Beaumont now lived had 
been Mr. Elpinstone’s birth-day present to his daugh- 
ter ; and the object of their journey out of town had 
been to fetch Edith and her mother ; a happier party 
never assembled than dined that day in the cottage 
parlour, for there Emeline had insisted on dining. 
Edith could not satisfy herself with looking at her sis- 
ter, she would not leave her side, and from that day 
she never did. Fanny soon after married her cousin 
George Beaumont, and a life of well deserved hap- 
piness amply repaid the trials of her youth. 


m- 

\ 


THE 


HISTORY OF A CHILD. 




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THE 


HISTORY OF A CHILD. 


How well I remember it, that single and lonely 
laurel tree, it was my friend, my confidant. How of- 
ten have I sat rocking on the one long, pendant branch 
which dropped even to the grass below. I can re- 
member the strange pleasure I took in seeing my tears 
fall on the bright shining leaves, often while observing 
them have I forgotten the grief that led to their fall- 
ing. I was not a pretty child, and both shy and sen- 
sitive ; I was silent, and therefore not amusing. No 
one loved me but an old nurse — why she should have 
been fond of me I know not, for I gave her much 
trouble ; night after night has she wakened with my 
crying — but she only wakened to soothe me. She 
was far advanced in years, but was still strikingly 
handsome. Her face, with its bold Roman profile, 
its large black eyes, is still before me as I used to see 
it bending over my crib, and singing, or rather cro- 
ning me to sleep with the old ballad of “ Barbara 
Allen.” Never will the most finished music, that ever 
brought the air and perfume of an Italian summer 
upon its melody— -never will it be sweet in my ears 
T 2 


222 


THE HISTORY 


as that untaught and monotonous tone : my first real 
sorrow was her departure ; life has been to me un- 
happy enough, but never has it known a deeper deso- 
lation than that first parting. It is as present as yes- 
terday ; she had married, and was now about to go 
to a home of her own. How I hated her husband ; 
with the rfest of the nursery he was a popular person, 
for he had been a sailor, and his memory was stored 
with wild histories of the Buccaneers ; nor was he 
without his own perils ; he had been shipwrecked on 
the coast of Cornwall, and was once prisoner of war, 
though rescued before the French vessel made har- 
bor. From any one else with what rapt attention 
should I have listened to these narratives, but to him 
I always turned a reluctant ear. Whenever he came, 
which he often did, into the large old nursery, where 
the hearth would have sufficed for ten fire-places of 
these degenerate days ; I used to draw my stool close 
to my nurse, and, leaning my head on her knee, keep 
fast hold of her hand — she encouraged this, and used 
to tell me she would never go away. 

The time of her departure was kept a secret, but I 
knew it ; the coach past the road at the end of the 
horse-chestnut avenue, and one night, they thought 
that I was asleep, I heard that two days after she was 
there to meet the coach, and go to London, to go 
there forever. I buried my face in my pillow that 
my crying might not be heard. I slept, and my 
dreams brought the old avenue, the coach stopping, 
as vividly as when I really saw them. 


OF A CHILD. ’ 223 

I awoke the next morning, pale and -heavy eyed, 
but I was subject to violent head-aches, and all pass- 
ed off as their effects. Not a wo|^d passed my lips 
of the previous night’s discourse. ‘For the first time 
I felt the bitterness of being deceived ; I could have 
better brooked the approaching separation, had I been 
trusted with it. But the secrecy made^e feel so 
unworthy and so helpless ; young as I was, I should 
have been proud of my nurse’s confidence ; at length, 
after three miserable silent days, the last night came. 
My nurse gave us all some little keep-sake, though 
without telling her immediate departure. To me she 
gave a book, for I was, to use her own expression, “ a 
great scholar.” That is, I had not the bodily strength 
for more active amusement, and was therefore very 
fond of reading ; but to night 1 had not the heart to 
look into the pages which at another time would have 
been greedily devoured. She was hurt at my seem- 
ing indifference, and took my brother on her knee, 
who was all rapture with his windmill ; I was very 
wrong, I could not bear to see him carest, and push- 
ing him violently aside, entreated her with a passion- 
ate burst of tears, to love me, and only me. 

We slept in a sort of gallery off the nursery, and 
the next morning I was up with the earliest day-break. 
Taking the greatest care not to awaken my compan- 
ions, I put on my clothes as well as I could, and stole 
down stairs. It was scarcely light through the closed 
windows, and the shadows took all fantastic sem- 
blances, and one or two of the chance rays fell upon 


224 


THE HISTORY 


the pictures in the hall, giving them strange and dis- 
torted likenesses. There was one stately lady in 
black, with a huge white ruff that encircled a face 
yet paler. The eyes seemed to follow me wherever 
I moved ; cold, 'glassy, immoveable eyes, which look- 
ed upon, as if they hated, the little trembling thing 
that was creeping along below. Suddenly a noise 
like thunder, at least such it seemed in my ears, I'ang 
through the hall. I clung to the oaken bannisters of 
the staircase, my very heart died within me, and I 
could scarcely raise my head from the place in which 
it had almost unconsciously buried itself, to ascertain 
the cause of an unusual light : the fact was a shutter 
had been carelessly fastened, and a gust of wind had 
caused the iron bar to fall. It was, however, fortu- 
nate for me, as in my well arranged plan, I had for- 
gotten one very important point ; namely, how I was 
to leave the house. To unfasten the hall door was 
utterly beyond my strength ; now an obvious method 
of escape presented itself. I opened the window and 
sprang out, running thence at full speed till I gained 
the avenue; there I was secure. Breathless with 
running, agitated and afraid, it is singular how soon I 
grew composed, and even cheerful in the clear bright 
morning ; its gladness entered into my heart. For a 
moment I almost forgot the purpose that had brought 
me there at such an hour : the mists were rising from 
the park, rolling away like waves of some silvery sea, 
such as I ever after fancied the seas in fairy tales to 
be. The clouds were warmjng into deeper crimson 


OF A CHILD. 


225 


every moment, till the smallest leaf on the chesnut 
trees seemed distinct on that bright red sky. How 
beautifully it was reflected on the lake, and yet it 
was almost terrible ; it seemed to me filled with flame. 
How huge and dark too rose our two cedars ; what 
a distance did their shadows spread before them ; but 
1 then turned to what was brightest. I was delighted 
to see the dew drops on the pointed speargrass, and 
the down balls shining with moisture ; it is a common 
superstition in our part of the country that wish and 
blow away the gossamer round, if it goes at one breath 
your wish will be granted. I caught one eagerly — I 
blew with all my strength — alas, only a little of the 
shining down was displaced ; I could scarcely see the 
remainder for tears ; at that moment I heard the horn 
of the coach. I wonder now that I could distinguish 
at such a distance ; I stopped my ears not to hear it 
again ; and the moment after held my breath to lis- 
ten. At last I caught sight of the coach in a winding 
of the road ; how glad I felt to think that there was 
still the hill between us. I had never before seen it 
coming, though I had often watched it drive past on 
a summer evening : I saw it pass rapidly through the 
windings of the green hedges, till it began slowly to 
ascend the hill. Here my attention was drawn from 
it, by the sight of my nurse and one of her fellow 
servants hurrying up the avenue ; years — years have 
past since then, but even now the pang of that mo- 
ment is cold at my heart. I was standing with my 
arm round the slender stem of one of the young trees. 


226 


THE HISTORY 


I leant my face upon it ; but I saw my nurse coming 
along as distinctly as if I had watched her. The 
coach stopped at the gate, and the coachman gave 
a loud and hasty ring, my nurse hurried by with- 
out seeing me, another moment apd I felt that she 
was lost to me forever. I sprang forward, I flung 
my arms around her, I clung to her with the momen- 
tary strength of despair ; I implored her to take me 
with her, I said I would work, beg for her, anything, 
if she would let me go and be her own child. At 
first she kissed and coaxed me to loose her, but a^- 
last the coachman became impatient of waiting ; in 
the fear of the stage going without her, harassed too 
by all the perplexities which 1 have since learnt be- 
long to all departures ; she exclaimed in the momen- 
tary peevishness of not being able to unclasp my 
arms, — 

What a tiresome child it is, I shall have the coach 
go without me.’^ 

My arms relaxed their tender and passionate clasp, 
I stood at her side pale, for I felt the color go from 
my cheek back upon my heart ; my eyes drank back 
their tears, I felt then what I never felt before ; the 
perfect self-control of strong excitement, and I bade 
her civilly good morning. I walked slowly away 
from the gate without looking back to see her get into 
the coach, but hearing the horn echo on the air, I ran 
to a point of rising ground, I caught the last sight 
of the horses, and flung myself down on the grass ; 
the words how tiresome the child is,” ringing in my 


OF A CHILD. 


227 


ears, as if another person at my side delighted to re- 
peat them in every possible way. 

To know yourself less beloved than you love, is a 
dreadful feeling — alas, how often has the remember- 
ance of that bitter hour come back again by some 
following hour too sadly like the one that went be- 
fore — How often have I since exclaimed, “ I am not 
beloved as I love.^’ 

The consequence of my being so long on the dewy 
grass, aided by the agitation that I had endured, 
brought on one of those violent colds to which I have 
always been subject. It was poor consolation, the 
undeniable fact that it had been brought on by my 
own fault. I never coughed without a sensation of 
shame. Of all shapes that illness can take, a cough 
is the worst. Pain can be endured in silence, but a 
cough is so noisy, it inevitably attracts attention ; the 
echo of mine from the vaulted roof was a perpetual 
torment to myself, because I knew that others must 
hear it as well. My cough brought also what was 
the severest of punishments, it kept me within doors, 
it prevented my daily visit to the old laurel, where I 
used to share my luncheon with a favorite old poin- 
ter of my father’s. 

One day, while I was sitting by the window, forced, 
alas, to be shut, I heard a whining at the door. I 
opened it, and in bounded the dog, overwhelming me 
with its caresses. Its large bright brown eyes were 
fixed upon me with all the depth of human affection. 
It was a delicious sensation to think that anything in 


238 


THE HISTORY 


tho world had missed me. Clio was a beautiful crea- 
ture with a coat of glossy blackness only broken by 
a few spots of tan. I have since heard a lovely head 
of hair compared to the “ down of darkness” and to 
the raven’s wing, but the highest .compliment that 
ever passes through my mind is to liken it to the dark 
silkiness of my darling Clio. The weather being very 
dry, no dirt could be brought into the house, and the 
visits of the intruder were a permitted pleasure. An- 
other source of enjoyment too opened upon me. I 
began to read the book that my nurse had given me ; 
at first the very sight of it was insupportably painful, 
but one long weary morning when the severity of 
illness had softened into that languor which needs 
some quiet amusement, I opened its pages. It was 
an epoch in my life, it is an epoch in every child’s 
life, the first reading of Robinson Crusoe. What 
entire possession it took of my imagination. Hence- 
forth one half of my time was past on that lovely and 
lonely island. The only thing that I could not un- 
derstand were Robinson Crusoe’s lamentations over 
his solitude, to me the most unreasonable things in the 
world. How little did I share his joy when the Eng- 
lish vessel came and bore him once more over the 
sea to his native England. It was a long time before 
I had any wish to read the rest. For weeks after 
reading that book, I lived as if in a dream, indeed I 
rarely dreamt of anything else at night, I went to sleep 
with the cave, its parrots and goats, floating before 
my closed eyes ; I wakened in some rapid flight from 


OF A CHILD. 


229 


the savages landing in their canoes. The elms in our 
own hedges were not more familiar than the prickly 
shrubs which formed his palisade; and the grapes 
whose drooping branches made fertile the wild savan- 
nahs. When at length allowed to go into the open 
air, my enjoyment was ten-fold. 

We lived in a large, old, and somewhat dilapidated 
place, only part of the grounds were kept up in their 
original high order. I used to wander in the almost 
deserted shrubberies, where the flowers grew in all 
the luxuriance of neglect over the walks, and the 
shrubs become trees drooped to the very ground, the 
boughs heavy with bloom and leaves. In the very 
heart of one of these was a large deep pond, almost 
black with the depths of shadow— One bank only 
was sunny, it had been turf, but one flower after an- 
other had taken possession of a situation so favorable. 
The rododhendron spread its fragile blossom of the 
softest lilac, beside the golden glories of the Constan- 
tinople rose ; a variety too of our English roses, had 
taken root and flourished there. There was the 
damask, with all its York and Lancaster associations, 
the white, cold as snow, the little red Ayshire darling, 
and last but not least, for it grew with a spendthrifts 
prodigality, the Chinese rose, a delicate frail stranger, 
yet the last to shed beauty on even our dark Novem- 
ber. Below, the pond was covered with water lilies 
with the large green leaves that support the loveliest 
of ivory boats, fit for the fairy Queen and her sum- 
mer court. But these were not the attractions of 
that solitary pond in my eyes. Its charm was a little 


230 


THE HISTORY 


island was a little island which seemed to float upon 
the dark water ; one side of the pond w^as covered 
with ancient willow trees, whose long pendant branch- 
es dropped forever over the same mournful mirror. 
One of these trees, by some natural caprice, shot out 
direct from the bank, a huge, straight bough that 
formed a complete bridge to the little island — at least 
so near that a rapid spring enabled me to gain it. — 
There was only one tree on this miniature island — a 
curiosly shaped but huge yew tree ; it quite rivalled 
the laurel that used to be my favorite haunt. I would 
remain hidden in the deep shadows of that gloomy 
tree, for the whole of my playtime, I was there, 

“ Monarch of all I surveyed 
My right there was none to dispute.” 

How well I recollect the eagerness with which, one 
morning, I sprang into its shade. The day before I 
had been to a juvenile ball given in the neighborhood. 
I w'as dressed with unusual care — and I am convinced 
that dress is the universal passion — and turned to 
leave the nursery with an unusual glow of compla- 
cency, one of the servants smoothing down a rebel- 
lious curl. As I past I heard the other say “ leave 
well alone” — and unfortunately I heard the rejoinder 
also — “ Leave ill alone, you mean ; did you ever see 
such a little plain thing.” This was but the beginning 
of my mortifications, that evening was but the first 
of many coming events that cast their shadows before. 
Still it was my earliest experience of the bitterness 
of neglect, and of the solitude of a crowd. I had 
for several hours the melancholy satisfaction of sit- 


OF A CHILD. 


231 


ting unnoticed in a corner ; at length the Lady of the 
House, in the most cruel kindness, insisted on my 
dancing — How the first figure of the quadrille was 
accomplished I know not. I fancied every one was 
laughing at me, I had to advance by myself, the room 
swam round, my head became giddy, I left my unfor- 
tunate partner, sprang away, and took refuge in a 
balcony and a burst of tears. The next morning I 
had tO' endure reproof, for I liad inflicted the mortifi- 
cation I felt, and the unanswerable question of “ What 
use was my being taught anything In sad truth, 
at that time, it might have seemed very little use in- 
deed. I was a clever, very clever child, but my mind 
was far beyond my years, and it lacked the knowl- 
edge which alone can teach how to use its powers. 
Moreover I was wholly deficient in all showy talents; 
for music I had no ear, for drawing no eye, and dan- 
cing w^as positively terrible to my timid temper. My 
sensitiveness made any attempt at display a hopeless 
endeavor. An hundred times has my book been re- 
turned because I was too anxious that I might say my 
lesson w'ell, the words died on my lips, I became 
confused, speechless, while the tears that rose too 
readily into my eyes appeared like sullenness. And 
yet at that moment my heart almost stopped beating 
with its eagerness, to repeat what in reality I had 
thoroughly mastered, and whose spirit had become a 
part of my mind. 

Still the imagination conquers the real. My head 
ached with crying when I reached my darling island, 
and yet in half an hour I was sitting in the shadow of 


232 


THE HISTORY 


the yew tree, my arm round Clio’s dark and glossy 
neck, and fancying the pointer an excellent represen- 
tation of ‘‘ my man Friday.” There was one time in 
the day, however, when I could never prevail on 
Clio to be my companion— abhut six she regularly 
disappeared, and all my coaxing to keep her at my 
side was in vain. One afternoon I watched and fol- 
lowed her. She took her way across the long shad- 
ows that were now beginning to sweep over the sun- 
ny park. She made her way to a small gate that 
opened on the road, and there lay down patiently 
awaiting the arrival of her master. I thought I would 
wait too, for I knew that my father was in the habit 
of coming in at that gate, as it saved a long round 
by the road. I soon heard the sound of his horse’s 
hoofs, and felt half inclined to run away. 1 was so 
glad that I did not, for my father took me up in his 
arms and kissed me with the utmost pleasure, saying, 
— So you have been waiting for me and taking 
the horse’s bridle in one hand, and me in the other, 
we walked across the park together. I now went to 
meet him every day ; happy, happy, hours that I past 
on that gate, with the pointer at my feet, looking up 
with its large human eyes, as if to read in mine when 
I first caught sight of my father. How I hated the 
winter with its cold cutting air, its thick fog, that put 
an end to this waiting ; winter, that left out the hap- 
piest hour of the day. But spring came again, spring 
that covered one bank with the sweet languor of the 
pale primrose, and another with the purple arabia of 
the breathing violet. No flower takes upon me the 


OF A CHILD. 


233 


effect of these. Years, long years past away since I 
have seen these flowers, other than in the sorted 
bouquet, and the cultivated garden, but those fair 
fresh banks rise distinct on my mind’s eye. They 
colour the atmosphere with themselves, their breath 
rises on the yet perfumed air, and I think with pain- 
ful pleasure over all that once surrounded them, I 
think of affections gone down to the grave, and of 
hopes and beliefs which I can trust no more. 

It was in the first week of an unusually forward May, 
that one afternoon, for I had again began my watch- 
ings by the Park gate, that my father produced four 
volumes, and for me. How delicious was the odour 
of the Russian leather in which they were bound, how 
charming the glance at the numerous pictures which 
glanced through the half opened leaves. The first 
reading of the Arabian Nights was like the first read- 
ing of Robinson Crusoe. For a time their world 
made mine — my little lonely island, dark with the 
mingled shadow of the yew and the willow, was now 
deserted, I sought a gayer site, that harmonised better 
with the bright creations now around me, I found it 
in a small old fashioned flower garden, where the 
beds, filled with the richest colours, were confined by 
small edgings of box into every variety of squares, 
ovals, and rounds. At one end was the bee house, 
whence the murmur of myriad insect wings came 
like the falling of water. Near was a large accacia, 
now in the prodigality of bloom which comes but ev- 
ery third year ; I found a summer palace amid its^ 

luxuriant boughs. The delight of reading those en- 
u 2 


234 


THU HISTORIT 


chanted pages, I must even to this day rank as the 
most delicious excitement of my life. I shall never 
have courage to read them again, it would mark too 
decidedly, too bitterly, the change in myself, — 1 need 
not. How perfectly I recollect those charming fic- 
tions whose fascination was so irresistible ! How 
well I remember the thrill of awe which came over 
me at the brazen giant sitting alone amid the path- 
less seas, mighty and desolate till the appointed time 
came, for the fated arrow at whose touch he was to 
sink down an unsolved mystery bidden by the eternal 
ocean ! 

How touching the history of Prince Agib — when 
he arrives at the lovely island only inhabited by the 
beautiful boy who dwelt there in solitude and fear till 
he came ! How in the thoughtlessness of youth, they 
laughed when sweet confidence had grown up be- 
tween them, at the prediction which threatened that 
beloved and gentle child with death at Prince Agib’s 
hand! Fate laughs at human evasion — the fated 
morning comes one false step, and even in the very 
act of tender service, the knife enters the heart of the 
predestined victim. Prince Agib sees from the thick 
leaves of the tree where he had taken shelter, the an- 
xious father, anxious but hopeful, arrive. He comes 
with music and rejoicing. What does he take back 
with him! The dead body of his son. 

Again with what all but actual belief did I devour 
the history of the wondrous lamp, whose possessor 
had only to wish. For weeks I lived in a world of 
wishes, and yet it was this dreaming w^orld first led 


OF A CHILD. 


235 


me into contract with the actual. As usual such 
knowledge began in sorrow. 

One morning^ before the period of leaving the 
school-room, I heard the report of a gun. In spite of 
the intricate path of rivers and boundaries I was then 
tracing, it still occured to me to wonder what could 
lead to a gun’s being fired at that time of year. Alas, 
1 learnt only too soon. On going to the accacia I was 
surprised not to find my usual companion w'aiting. 
As to reading in any comfort, till I had Clio’s soft 
brown eyes watching me, was impossible. I sent off 
in search of the truant, perhaps she had been fastened 
up. I found my way to the stable, and to the dead 
body of my favourite. She had been bitten by an 
adder, and they had been obliged to shoot her. It 
was one of those shocking spectacles which remain 
with you for your life. Even now my dreams are 
haunted with the sight. I believe at first that horror 
pre-dominated over regret. I could not cry, I stood 
and trembling beside the mangled remains of what I 
had loved so dearly. I prevailed on one of the servants 
to bury it near my accacia tree. For days afterwards 
I did nothing but sob on that grave. How desolate 
the mornings seemed — how the presence of one real 
sorrow shook toi ts very foundations my fairy-land. 
I started from even a moment’s forgetfulness as a 
wrong to the memory of my beloved companion. 

At length I began to take an interest in decorating 
the grave, and planted first one flower and then 
another. I was not very successful in my gardening 


236 


THE HISTORY 


attempts, till at length Lucy came to my assistance. 
Lucy was the grandaughter of an old blind woman 
who lived near ; an aged retainer of some great family, 
whose small pension had long out-lasted the original 
donors. I have seen many beautiful faces since, but 
nothing that rises to my memory to be compared wdth 
Lucy’s childish but exceeding loveliness. She was 
delicately fair, though constant exposure to the sun 
had touched the little hands, and the sweet face with 
soft brown, through which came the most transparent 
colour that ever caught its red from the rose, or its 
changefulness from the rainbow. Her hair was of 
that pale yet rich gold so rarely seen : with the sun- 
shine upon it, it was positively radiant ; it shone as 
the wind lifted some of the long soft curls. It was a 
species of beauty too frail, too delicate, and the large 
blue eyes had that clear sky-like azure, that violet 
shadow round the orbs which mark an hereditary 
tendency to decline. She was in the habit of coming 
into our gardens to gather roses for distillation. Ac- 
customed from her cradle to strangers and exertion, 
making friends by a manner whose sweetness was as 
natural as the smile to her face, Lucy was not the 
least shy: if she had been, we should never have be- 
come acquainted. But when she frankly offered her 
services to assist in ornamenting the little plot of 
ground on which my shrubs were drooping, and round 
which my flowers always made a point of dying ; they 
were accepted on my part with equal surprise and 
gratitude. Under her more judicious management, 
the ground was soon covered with leaf and bloom. 


OF A CHILD. 


237 


and every blossom that put forth was a new link in our 
intimacy. 

“ I wish I could do anything to oblige you,” was 
my exclamation at the sight of my first carnation. 

“ Oh,” exclaimed she, the soft colour warming into 
her cheek with eagerness, ‘‘ you are a great reader, 
would you sometimes come and read to my grand- 
mother?” This I easily obtained permission to do, 
and that every evening I went with Lucy to Mrs. 
Selby^s. The cottage where, she lived stood alone in 
a little nook between our park and the churchyard ; 
yew trees were on the one side, and our cedars on 
the other, but the garden itself seemed a very fairy- 
land of sunshine ; a jessamine covered the front 
with its long trailing green branches, and its white 
delicate blossoms. The porch was enlivened by that 
rare and odoriferous shrub, the yellow musk rose; 
It is the only one I have ever seen, but of a summer 
evening, it covered that little portal with gold, and 
filled the whole air with its peculiar and aromatic 
fragrance. We read of the gales that bear from the 
shores of Ceylon the breathings of the cinnamon 
groves. I have always fancied that the musk rose re- 
sembles them. Inside how cool, clean and neat was 
the room with its brick floor and large old fire place, 
and yet there was only Lucy to do everything ; I have 
often thought since of the difference between the chil- 
dren of the rich, and the children of the poor — the first 
kept apart, petted, indulged, and useless ; — the se- 
cond with every energy in full exercise from the 
cradle, actively employed, and earning their daily 


238 


THE HISTORY 


bread, almost from the hour that they begin to eat it. 
If there is too much of this in the lower classes, if la- 
bour be carried into cruelty, there is infinitely too 
little of it in the higher. The poor child, as Charles 
Lamb so touchingly expresses it, is not brought, but 
“ dragged out,” and if the wits are sharpened, so too 
is the soft round cheek. The cripped limb and broken 
constitution attest the effects of the over-early struggle 
with penury ; but the child of rich parents suffers 
though in another way ; there it is the heart that is 
crippled, by the selfishness of indulgence and the habit 
of relying upon others. It takes years of harsh con- 
tact with the realities of life to undo the enervating 
work of a spoilt and over aided childhood. We can- 
not too soon learn the strong and useful lessons of 
exertion and self-dependence. Lucy was removed 
from the heaviest pressure of poverty, but how much 
did she do that was wonderful in a child of her age ! 
The cottage was kept in the most perfect neatness, 
and her grandmother’s every want watched as 
only love watches ; she was up with the lark, the 
house was put in order, their own garden weeded, 
her nosegays collected from all parts, for Lucy was 
the flower market, the Madeline of our village. Then 
their dinner was made ready; afterwards, her light 
song and even lighter step w^ere again heard in the 
open air, and when evening came on, you saw her in 
the porch as busily plaiting straw as if the pliant 
fingers had only just found employment. 

That was my time for visiting at the cottage, when 
the last red shadows turned the old Gothic lattices 


OF A CHILD. 


239 


of the church into rubies ; then on the low bench be- 
side Lucy, I used to sit and read aloud to her grand- 
mother. She was a very remarkable woman, her 
tall stately figure was unbent by age, and her high 
and strongly marked features were wanderful in ex- 
pression for a face where the eyes were closed for 
ever. She was a north country woman, and her 
memory was stored with all those traditions which 
make so large a portion of our English poetry. Lucy 
was her only link with the present, but for her afiec- 
tion to that beautiful child, she lived entirely with the 
past. The old castle where she had chiefly lived, 
whose noble family had perished from the earth as 
if smitten by some strange and sudden doom, the le- 
gends connected with their house, — these w^ere her 
sole topics of discourse. All these legends were of a 
gloomy tendency, and 1 used to gaze on her pale 
sightless face, and listen to the hollow tones of her 
voice till my heart sank within me for fear. But if by 
any chance Lucy left us for a moment, no matter how 
interesting the narrative, the old woman would sus- 
pend her discourse and question me about Lucy’s 
appearance. I did not then understand the meaning of 
her questions. Alas ! how I look back to the hour pas- 
sed every summer evening in that little shady porch, 
reading to that blind old woman, Lucy thanking me 
all the time, with her sweet blue eyes. I have rarely 
I fear me been so useful since, certainly never so be- 
loved. It was not to last long; August was now be- 
ginning, and it came in with violent thunder storms. 
One of Lucy’s occupations was to gather wild straw- 


240 


HISTORY OF A CHILD. 


berries in a wood at some distance, and nothing could 
exceed the natural taste with which she used to ar- 
range the bright scarlet fruit amid the vine leaves she 
fetched from our garden. Returning over the com- 
mon, she was caught in a tremendous shower,, and 
w^et through. The sudden chill struck to a constitu- 
tion naturally delicate, and in four and twenty hours, 
Lucy was no more — I went to see her unconscious 
of wLat had happened. The house w as shut up ; I 
felt for the first time in my life that vague presenti- 
ment of evil which is its certain forerunner ; I thought 
only of the aged woman, and entered hastily yet 
stealthily in. No one was to be seen in the front 
room, and I found my way to the one at the back. 
There were no shutters to the window, and the 
light streamed through the thin white curtain ; it fell 
on the face of the dead. Beside sat the grand- 
mother, looking the corpse which she became in the 
course of that night. She never spoke after she felt 
her child’s hand grow cold and stiff in her owm. 
There she lay, that beloved and beautiful girl, her 
bright hair shining around her, and her face so pale, 
but with such strange sw^eetness. I bent down to 
kiss her, but the touch was death. But why should 
I go on ; I had lost my gentle companion for ever. 

I have told the history of my childhood, childhood 
which images forth our after life. Even such has 
been mine — it has but repeated what it learnt from 
the first, Sorrow, Beauty, Love and Death. 


T H Fi END. 



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